This Sky (10 page)

   
Just forget it.

     I bounce the tip of the pen against my thigh. I need to concentrate on what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m at work. 

    Fuck that.

    By the time I catch up with Claudia, she’s on the edge of the dance floor. My hand snakes out to stop her progress. “So, tell me about this Ren guy. Her ex.”

    She throws her head back and laughs in obvious surprise. “Oh, now you’re interested?”

     I shove my left hand into my hair, pulling the ends through my fingers and look away. I shake my head. “I’m not interested. I’m just…”
Interested.
Damn, I’m losing it. Panic rises up inside of me. I feel wetness bead on my forehead and realize that I’m actually starting to sweat. This is so confusing. I don’t understand this—this
draw,
this urgency
coursing through me like an electrical hum
.
Why is my head spinning with words and song lyrics? Why do I keep picturing her eyes? Her neck? I don’t even know this girl. I’ve met her once. Twice if you count the gas station. “You’re the one who brought it up in the first place.”

    “Ren Parkhurst? The star of
Howl
? Does that ring any bells with you?” When I shake my head again, her voice rises with disbelief and she throws her hands in front of her body. “The actor? The bathroom sex guy?”

    My mouth goes slack, my brain skimming over my limited knowledge of pop culture. “From that video last week? The one that you showed me?”

    “The very one.” She bends to me, whispering conspiratorially. “That video is exactly why Gemma is sleeping on Julie’s futon and looking for a job. She was living with him but moved out. Obviously.”

    I scrub my hand through my hair. “She dated an actor?”

    “You don’t have to say it with such disdain. You do realize that I’m a theater student?”

    I ignore my sister and blink. An
actor
?

    A fucking actor from one of those shitty teen paranormal TV shows?

    Gemma dated that guy?

   
That
guy?

    I’m momentarily disappointed. She didn’t seem like the type to be impressed with all of that stuff—the fancy cars, the glint of fame and fortune—and I think
about all the ways the picture doesn’t add up. It’s like when you’re a kid and you learn about molecules and atoms and that everything in this world is made up of the exact same stuff, and your eyes are bouncing between the stars and the water and the skin on your legs and you’re thinking to yourself,
how does that work?

    “Is she okay?” I ask without thinking.

     My sister makes a face. “What do you think, Landon? She was devastated and embarrassed. Her whole world has been turned upside down.”

     My left hand goes to the hard knot at the back of my neck. This explains why Gemma’s credit card was declined and she was such a mess today. This is exactly why she almost collapsed when she saw those magazines.

    I suck in a short burst of air as I remember the pink flush of Gemma’s skin and the softness of her lips in contrast to her blazing eyes. I think about the guy who would throw that away for a pair of new tits and a quick fuck and I want to hit something. “What an asshole.”

    “I know,”
Claudia says. “And just think, I used to have a crush on him.”

    “It’s not surprising,” I deadpan. “I’ve always questioned your taste in men.”

    She tries to look offended but doesn’t quite pull it off. “This coming from the guy who wrote poems about Maddie Taylor for an entire summer?”

     “Don’t you think it’s time to put that one to rest?” I squeeze my neck harder. “We were nine. Maddie Taylor was fifteen and wore a real bra. Of course I was a little in love with her.”

    “She babysat us.”

    I merely shrug. “And your point?”
    “She does adult films now. Or have you forgotten the clip I showed you from
Lust in Space
, the ill-conceived brainchild of science fiction and porn?”

    “Oh, I remember it very well. And I think the genre should be called
science friction
.”

    Claudia makes a hacking sound. “That’s it. Cue the apocalypse.”

    I cock my head. “Why the apocalypse?”    

    “Because you!” She gestures at me. “Buying gas for strangers. Being almost friendly. Making jokes. You never joke.”

    “I joke,” I snap back.

    “You do? Landon Young, The Lord of Stoicism? Tell me when you’ve joked recently.”

    I fold my arms across my chest and make a big production out of thinking hard. “There was that one time.”

    “Oh, right. That
one
time.” She wings an eyebrow at me. “I just think it’s interesting. Gemma shows up, talks to you for a few minutes and here you are acting like a different guy. Sort of like Old Landon.”

    “Old Landon?”

     My sister closes her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

     “Coincidence,” I say, but my eyes automatically find Gemma. Her body is tilted to one side so that I can just see the dip of her lower back and her upper thighs where the bottom of the blue dress plays with her skin.   

    Katarina’s act is starting to get descriptive, which basically means that the lewdness factor just redlined. I watch in a sort of fascination as Gemma’s vivid eyes grow bigger and bigger and bigger.

    I can’t stop the small laugh that escapes my mouth.

    Claudia makes a humming sound from the back of her throat and dips her chin. “And now you’re laughing.”

    I see where this is headed and caution her, “Stop.”

    “You stop,” she echoes my tone.

    “I appreciate
the fact that you care, but it’s not going to happen.” I press my lips together, trying to organize my thoughts. This is old territory—covered and platted out a long time ago. “Gemma’s obviously going through some stuff and I’m not going to drag her into my fucked-up world.”

     She
sighs and screws up her face. “I wish you could open up to someone.”

    I open my mouth to tell her again to leave it alone, but I don’t manage to get the words out. Cheering erupts all over the bar, bringing an end to our conversation.

    Katarina has whipped out the free drink tickets and some girl near the stage is up on a chair, holding up her top and wiggling her ass, obviously hoping to land one. The pitch of hoots and whistles climbs about a hundred decibels.

    Jesus, it never ceases to amaze me what people are willing to do for a free drink. I shake my head and furtively seek out Gemma to gauge her reaction. Her hand is blocking the bottom half of her face but I can tell that behind those slender fingers, she’s grinning. Her thin shoulders shake with her laughter and I have the strangest urge to walk over there and just… just
what
?

     Fuck.

    As I’m gritting my teeth, some guy I don’t recognize as a regular customer approaches her from behind. I still as he leans in toward Gemma, his hand coasting toward the small of her back, his mouth moving dangerously close to her ear.

     Gemma turns slightly to accommodate him and
that’s when I stop breathing. From this distance, I can’t make out what he’s saying to her, but I see the ways her lips curl and her body sways. I slit my eyes and scratch my fingers through my hair, unused to the miserable feeling turning me inside out, scalding me, hardening my entire body. Fucking jealousy.

    
Stop it, Young. Remember that you have absolutely no fucks to give.

     The stranger
says something else and Gemma’s mouth opens and her eyes widen. She shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest and backing away from him. What the hell? Did he just insult her? Should I go over there and step in? Hissing an angry breath between my teeth, I take a step in her direction.

    
“Heads up,” Claudia says, moving behind me, stopping me with a hand on my arm. “Abby just walked in.”

     I spin toward the main door and sure enough, I see Abby’s familiar blond head. My stomach contracts with wariness.

    “She probably needs money,” Claudia surmises in a disgusted tone.

    “Claudia—don’t. She’s trying.”

    “Right. And I heard that Santa is taking applications for an apprentice.”

  
I shake my head, still struggling to regulate my breathing. “Claudia, please?”

    “I don’t get it. Why do you let her do this to you? You don’t owe her a thing.”

    “It’s not that simple.” I argue, too wired to think clearly.

     “It is!”

     “If I can change, can’t she?”

     My sister
turns from me with a long sigh. “I’m not having this conversation right now. I’m leaving to have fun with my friends, okay?”

     I grunt, my eyes dartin
g toward Gemma. Relief loosens my throat when I see that she’s no longer talking to that guy. She’s sandwiched safely between Julie and Smith and I’m selfishly hoping that she’ll stay there the rest of the night.

     “
You’re welcome to join us when your shift is over,” Claudia continues, her eyes flicking back to Abby. “Like I said before, Gemma is pretty. And don’t lie to me, Landon—you’ve noticed.”

    I say nothing at all.

    Because I
have
noticed.

Gemma

I wake with a start. A layer of sweat is trapping my hair to the skin of my neck. My head and heart are going like machine gun fire. My tank top is bunched up over my breasts and my arms are tangled in a thin cotton sheet.

    A squeaky, rusty sound fills my ears, making my breath come out faster. It takes my fuzzy brain several seconds to piece together where I am.

    The futon.

    The steady buzz from the refrigerator.

   
Julie’s apartment
.

    I rub my eyes, push my wet bangs from my forehead and see that Weebit is getting an early start on his exercise wheel. That explains the high-pitched whine of the metal right by my head and the reason I woke up so suddenly.

    The air-conditioning kisses my damp skin as I untangle myself and stretch out my legs. I push myself up to a sitting position and wipe my hair off the back of my neck. Later, I’m sure I’ll crave a nap, but for now, I can tell there’s no way I’ll be able to fall back asleep.

    Letting go of a sigh, I use my socked feet to grope around the floor for my glasses and phone.

   
Bingo.

   
I settle the glasses on my face and bring my phone to life. Ignoring all of my notifications, I check the time. It’s just before six, which means I have almost a whole hour before the sun comes up. Blech.

    Balancing on my toes, I creep down the hall and move quietly past Julie’s bedroom. I use the bathroom and guzzle a little water from the tap before returning to the nook to add some pellet food to Weebit’s ceramic crock.

     What to do… what to do… The TV might wake Julie up so that’s out.

    A book? Before my life imploded I’d been alternating between important mid-century American authors and corny pirate erotica. What can I say? I like variety.

    I look around the floor near the futon but have no clue where to find my Kindle or any of my books in the jumble of half-unpacked things strewn all over the floor.

     Maybe I should just go find someplace that serves coffee. Yesterday, Julie told me that she doesn’t
do coffee
anymore
.
She does tea. She does soda.
It’s not,
I told her through my dismay,
the same thing
.

    Figuring that hardly anyone is going to be up this early, I decide to stay in pajamas, simply finding a pair of flats for my feet and a light sweater before grabbing my purse and slipping out the door.

    The morning—my second in San Diego—is cool and quiet. The warped pre-dawn light turns the skin on my legs and arms pale blue. As I descend the stairs, shadows follow me, scurrying along the walls, dipping into weedy cracks and fading into spotty patches of moonlight.

    Down in the courtyard, the scent of damp concrete is heavy. It slithers along the lining of my throat and settles over my lungs like a film of rimy morning fog. I clutch my purse to my chest with a bent arm and awkwardly stretch the sweater over my head. When it’s in place, I pull my hair out from the scooped neck with a free hand. Then I sit down on the last stair and bring my phone to life. I want to find the closest place to get a cup of coffee. Real coffee. Coffee that’s made from freshly-ground imported beans. Coffee that’s dark and r
ich and is topped with expertly-foamed milk.

     Yesterday, I found a twenty-dollar bill stuffed in the back pocket of a pair of dirty jeans. I figure I can use it to splurge for a small cup of coffee. 

     As I’m sorting through the search results, deciding between a Starbucks and an independent place that claims to have the best fresh croissants in San Diego County, a dark form looms behind me and something cold and wet smashes into the back of my neck. I squawk loudly and jerk my upper body forward, whacking my elbow into one of the metal railing rungs. My phone falls to the stones of the courtyard. “Gahh!”

    The wet thing moves to the side of my face and presses into my cheek and I squeal again this time with a mixture of embarrassment and relief because I’ve just realized that the thing is a dog nose.

    And the dog?

    He’s ridiculously cute. A mishmash of coarse ivory and grey hair sticks up every which way from his narrow body. One ear flops down while the other stands straight up. He’s sniffing my face, licking me and prodding me with his nose. His tail, I note, is nothing more than a sad little stub of fur quivering at the end of his body.

    I place my hand on the dog’s head and run my fingers through his wiry fur. He sits back and pokes his pink tongue out from his snout. His huge liquid brown eyes blink at me.

    “Where’d you come from?” I ask, pulling myself up to my knees so I have better leverage. I spin his collar to check the little bone-shaped metal tag hanging against his chest. “Wyatt,” I murmur, reading the name and phone number etched into the dull metal.

    “You’re pretty freaking cute, aren’t you, Wyatt?” I scratch him a bit harder, adding my nails to the mix. He grunts in approval when I reach the patch of springy white hairs that grow from beneath his chin. I laugh and turn my hands in a circular motion. “You like that?”

    Another grunt. 

    Above us, I hear a door slam shut and a deeply masculine voice call down to the dark courtyard. “Wyatt! Where are you?”

    The dog’s ears twitch and he jerks his head away from my hand. His eyes dart up the stairs.

    “
Wyatt
!” Louder this time.

    The dog responds with a high-pitch whimper and bails on our little pow wow.

    Gripping the stair rail, I crane my neck back to look around. Landon Young, framed by spears of ghostly pre-dawn light, is coming toward me, tackling the stairs two at a time.

    He’s wearing the same grey knit hat he had on at the gas station two days ago. There’s a small bag slung over his shoulder and a surfboard under his arm.

    He’s a surfer?

    He must sense my presence on the stairs because he draws back, one foot dangling in space above a step. His head moves in my direction and I catch the flicker of surprise that skirts across his eyes. He squints like he’s making sure I’m a real person and not just a clump of shadows and says, “Hey.”

    “Hey,” I reply in a steady voice that belies how manic I’m feeling—like I want to run and stay in place all at the same time.

    I stand and we do that thing where we both go to the same side at the same time. Then we switch and do it all over again on the other side. It’s a dance made all the more awkward by the big surfboard jostling between our bodies and the dog zigzagging between our ankles. Finally, Landon grasps my upper arm and holds me stationary while he squeezes past.

    “Sorry,” he murmurs as our hips and thighs brush. I can’t help but remember Friday night and the heady thrill that moved through me. Yesterday, I’d chalked my reaction up to the alcohol and nerves but the sensation is back this morning. With a vengeance.

    “No—it’
s me,” I eke out, my mouth gone suddenly dry and my palms starting to sweat.

    He backs up but I can still feel the memory of his breath against my cheek and my heart pounds so hard I worry that he’ll be able to hear it.

    He adjusts his surfboard and stares.

    Behind my glasses, my gaze flits all over the place—up the stairs, over the pool, down to my knees, across the thin silvery threads that split the top of my socks. I’m bouncing and huffing so much that Landon probably thinks I snorted a few lines and washed them down with a
couple cans of Red Bull.

    His
intent eyes narrow at me. “Is everything okay? Why are you out here?”

    “Hmm?” I notice that on top of the bouncing, I’m fidgeting with my hands. What is the deal with that?

    “Are you locked out of Julie’s?”

    “What—? Oh, um—no
.” I drop my hands and clear my throat—a move which ends up sounding a lot like a cat hacking up a hairball.

    It’s so bad that Landon actually leans over and thumps his palm a couple of times against my back.
His eyebrows lift. “You okay there?”

    “Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer, begging my brain and my body to chill out.

    “You’re sure?”

    Suddenly, I realize how close we are and I take a peek at his fac
e. He really is handsome. He hasn’t shaved and brown stubble is lining his jaw. It draws my attention to his mouth. There’s no denying it’s a great mouth.

    And before I know it, I’m picturing myself wrapping my arms over Landon Young’s wide shoulders and pressing my tongue to that soft line where his lips meet in the middle. I can practically feel myself lifting my hands to his hair and grazing m
y teeth along his jaw, over rough skin to the slippery oasis. His hands brush down the length of my body and he slips those long fingers under the fluttery edges of my pajama shorts and—

    
Whoa
. A thousand alarms start to go off in my head and a million winged things take flight in my stomach.

    What in the actual hell is wrong with me?

   
Damaged goods
, I remind myself with a commanding shake. Landon Young, with his sexy, sun-lightened brown hair, his intimidating eyes and very square jaw, is exactly the kind of guy that a girl could get lost in. And let’s face it, I don’t need that in my life. I’m already lost.

    “It’s just that you look a little lost,” he says
, his brows lifting a little higher.

    My face heats. Have I spoken out loud? Mortification pries my mouth open. Closes it. Opens it again. “No, I was—” I was
what? Thinking swoony thoughts about you?

    Landon scans the courtyard and his forehead bunches when he sees my dropped phone. “You really should be more careful with that,” he says, stooping over to pick it up. “Those phone screens—”

    “Are a bitch to switch out,” I finish, borrowing his words from the gas station.

    “That’s right.” His eyes meet mine, sending a rush of blood straight to my head. His mouth curls up and I come
this
close to leaning into the stair rail. “You didn’t answer my question before. Why are you sitting out here by yourself in the middle of the night? Did you get locked out of Julie’s?”

    “Oh, well, I wouldn’t really call it the middle of the night.” I twist my fingers in the fabric of my sweater. Here’s to hoping that he hasn’t noticed how short and saturated in tiny hot pink flamingos my pajama shorts are. “I didn’t sleep well and I wanted to find someplace that serves coffee. Julie doesn’t have any in the apartment,” I tell him this information like it’s a criminal offense. Which, let’s face it, it should be.

    “Ahhh.” The low sound he makes sends a fresh batch of shivers rolling down my arms.

    “H-how about you?” I stammer. “Why are you up this early?”

    “I like to surf early in the mornings if the weather cooperates. It’s usually less crowded and the waves are stronger.”

    “Do you go every day?”

     “I try.”

    Having exactly zero knowledge of surfing aside from a short phase of watching
Blue Crush
on repeat
and thinking maybe I should move to Hawaii to become a kick-ass female pro surfer, I stick with a head nod, which could mean
sure
or
cool
or
whatever.

    A few seconds of silence scrape by. We hover. Exhale. Hover some more.

    At last, Landon clears his throat and glances at the dog, who has been watching this whole interaction with his tongue lolling out from the side of his mouth. “I see that you met Wyatt.”

    “I did.”

    “I hope he was polite.”

    “A perfect gentleman.” I crouch down and rub my fingers back and forth under the dog’s chin in that spot he liked before. He rewards me by wagging his
stubby tail and thumping his back foot against the ground of the courtyard. “Do you always take him with you?”

    “I do when I have enough time to make a longer drive. Not all the beaches around here allow dogs so it just depends on which break I’m headed to.”

    “Makes sense.” I wipe my hand on the fabric of my sweater and stand.

    “Do you want to come with me?”

    I have to turn his words over in my head a few times to make sure that I’ve understood him right. I know my eyes are popping from my skull. “To the beach? With you?”

    “Yeah. I think that maybe—I don’t know—” His night-dark gaze flies away. He swipes the knit beanie from his head and rubs his hand back and forth through his hair. He exhales through his nose and says, “My sister told me that you got the job.”

    At Claudia’s urging, I stayed at Aunt Zola’s late Friday night and met with Tish and Jamie for an impromptu interview. I went in yesterday afternoon to fill out my paperwork. “I did,” I confirm. “I start training with your sister tomorrow.”