This Sky (7 page)

    My lashes lower fast and hard, snapping me out of my trance, but it’s already too late.

    The girl is gone.

    My stomach clenches and a strange sensation spreads across my chest, hot and cold all at once. It takes a second for me to place it and when I do, I scratch my head and suck in a breath.
Disappointment.

    Hashtag: FUCK.

   
Do you feel it?

    Trying to banish the feeling with a hard shake, I pull my keys from my back pocket and let myself in through the oversized metal security door. I check my watch one more time before hiking across the hall and calling out a murky hello to Tish, who is bunked down in her office doing paperwork. I duck through the kitchen, grabbing a few carrot sticks from one of the prep stations to get the taste of peppers and mustard out of my mouth. Micah, a lanky figure standing over the grill, nods and asks me about the waves tonight. I tell him
about the south swells predicted for Trestles and Del Mar over the weekend then I’m pushing my way through the swinging door that leads to the main floor of Aunt Zola’s.

    Music, voices, tinkling glass, the chime of metal on metal. I was right
about the crowd. We’re so full that it’s stifling in here.

     When I step behind the bar, Jamie greets me with a rushed
Thank God
.

     “Miss me?”

     “Vincent and Margo are handling the high tops,” he says, pouring an ounce of well vodka into a cup and topping it with soda water and a squeeze of lime. “I’m going to let you deal with the bachelorette party out on the patio.”

     “You shouldn’t have,” I say, my eyes scanning the perimeter for raised hands.
Hell, who am I kidding? I’m checking for the girl in the blue dress.

    “They’re getting wasted and frisky. One of them just came up here and asked if she could take a picture of my penis for some sort of checklist.” Then he’s directing me around the bar.

    “Two Bicardi and Cokes. Highball!”

    “One Kahlua shooter!”

    “Bourbon. Neat.”

     Orders are shouted. Drinks are mixed and poured. Money is exchanged.

    I ignore the ache in my body and keep my head down as I work. Stoli and pineapple. Bud Light in a glass. A line of pickleback shots.

    “Bartender!”

    The impatient demand pulls my head up.

   
Bartender.

   
This is who I am now.

    Forget about Landon Young, rising surf star.

    He doesn’t live here anymore.

Gemma

At night, the reedy streets crisscrossing the boardwalk seem to be alive.

    Electric lights spin overhead, their scattered neon trails painting intricate red and green patterns on my skin. People are everywhere—weaving past a small food cart at the end of the block selling chili dogs and fried cheese sticks. They spill from shadowy club entrances to the sidewalk, trickling into the street in disorganized lines. I see them melt away—almost liquefying as they slide into stopped cabs, move smoothly through shadowed entryways and sweep around the corners like particles of dust.

    I step over the curb, stop, tuck my hair behind one ear and close my eyes. A soft wind gusts through a wide gap between two one-story buildings, carrying the tangy zing of cloves and cooking meat to my nostrils.

    “You coming?”

    A question. Lightly asked—more curious than annoyed.

     My eyelids flutter. The lights are back, coming into focus. Julie is watching me, concern knitting her face.

    “Yeah. Sorry, I needed a minute.”

     Then we’re moving through the crowd with Smith and Claudia in the lead. They seem to know everyone here, including the bouncers at the door.

    I smack my lips and adjust the outfit Julie forced me to wear. I hate it. I look like a Forever 21 dressing room threw up on me. No lie. I’ve got on a wide pleather belt that I think is reminiscent of something Wonder Woman would put on if she was pretending to be Diana Prince for the night, and on my feet are these mile-high glittery black heels that Julie insists are perfect man bait
. Whatever.
Earlier, she referred to the electric blue scrap of fabric I’m wearing as a “dress,” but I’m pretty sure she’s mistaken and the thing is actually some kind of bandeau bra or horribly impractical neck warmer. Even in L.A., the land of boob jobs and butt implants and Botox, this would be considered stripper gear. It’s so short that I can feel the air creeping up my inner thighs and the stares on my pasty legs.

    “Stop it. You’re killing it,” she assures me for the hundredth time as she grabs hold of my elbow and drags me up a short flight of stairs.

    “You likey?” Claudia shouts over the thump of live music.

    After a few blinks, my eyes adjust to the low light and the world steadies. I take in the
packed tables, the dancers and the four-man band jamming out on a large half-moon stage cut out between two barn-style purple doors. To be perfectly honest, my expectations coming in had been pretty low, so I’m pleasantly surprised. “It’s great!” I yell back, meaning it.

     The restaurant is cool. It’s hip, but not in an obvious kind of way, which is actually the hippest kind of hip. Think people who shop at Whole Foods. Think tortured, tattooed musician in a pair of black Buddy Holly eyeglasses. Think East Bay.

    Nothing matches but everything
goes.
The walls are covered in an eclectic mix of funky artwork. Near the hostess station is an oil painting of a Chihuahua wearing a black derby hat and a bowtie. Above a row of green leather booths I spot a wire plant shelf lined with a collection of bizarre looking ceramic cats.

     Claudia stands on her tiptoes. “I think some seats at the bar are opening up. I’m going to grab them!” She calls out, lunging away and taking Smith with her.

    Julie and I are slow to follow. We take our time weaving past the dining tables and through the horde of swaying sweaty bodies on the dance floor. When we finally reach Smith, he lifts a glass sparkling with a frothy green concoction and asks, “So, what are we having?”

     “Shots?” Claudia suggests.

    Now I look to my left and see that she’s standing behind the bar. There’s a small white towel thrown over her shoulder.

    “You work here?” I ask, my eyes bugging
from my head. I seriously hope she didn’t crawl back there as some kind of practical joke. Getting kicked out of here is not what I need right now.

    “Yeah.”

    “This is why your margaritas were so amazing?”

    “This is why,” she replies, wiggling her eyebrows at me until I can’t help but laugh. “So what’ll it be? Another margarita?”

    “Umm…” Julie hikes up her skirt and squirms her way onto one of the barstools that Smith has saved for us. She looks over the colorful bottles lined up in neat rows across the shelves at the back of the bar and studies the long line of craft beer taps. “I think I’ll change it up and go with a Lava Flow.”

    “What’s in that?” I ask her.

     Julie shrugs and makes a popping sound with her lips. “It’s pink and frothy, and it tastes like cotton candy but gets you drunk. Who the hell cares what’s in it?”

    Sounds reasonable to me.

    “How about you?” Claudia asks me.

    Still maneuvering myself into place and tugging on the bottom of the blue dress, I tell her that I’ll be fine with water.

    Julie’s head whips around. “Water?” she sounds appalled. Like I just said that I crave the taste of raw kitten flesh and the blood of a newborn infant. “What is this—amateur hour? I’m totally confuzzled.”

    “You’re
what
?” I laugh.

    “Confuzzled. As in confused… puzzled… seeking understanding or divine intervention.” She closes her eyes on a long blink and frowns. “Did you miss the memo about coming out tonight to drink away your feelings and find you a man? We’re on a mission, Gem.” She pauses and says very slowly, her voice full of seriousness, “Possibly a mission from God.”

     I bite down on my bottom lip and look away. “Remember that I’m broke. Like soup kitchen broke.”

     “Pshhh!” She blows off my concern with a hand wave. “Tonight is on me. You can get me back when you’re rich and famous.”

    I watch her lift two fingers to indicate to Claudia that we want two Lava Flows. “No, Jules. I’m already staying at your place. I can’t sponge drinks off of you too.”

     “No arguments
, Sayers. We’re here to toast your independence!” she crows and swings around on her stool to take in the scene. “Let’s see. A rebound guy for you and a perhaps a tonight guy for moi.” She bobs her finger. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Catch a rebound by the toe. If he smells bad, let him go. My best friend said to pick the very best one and you are
it
!”

     I follow the tip of her index finger to a
tall drink of water in dark-rimmed glasses and a plain white shirt.

    “He’s cute,” I concede.

    “Gay,” Smith says blandly.

    “How do you know?”

     He lifts his eyebrows at me and blinks. “Trust me. I know.”

    “Figures.” Julie’s mouth puckers. “What about Mister Manly over there?
”

   
This time, her eyes and finger are on a bearded man-boy with a wide-legged stance and massive shoulders. He’s got on black boots and a plaid shirt that is stretched tight in all the right places. I get the feeling that he’d be able to wreak some havoc on a Rugby field or take down an ox with his bare hands. “He looks like he’d have you begging for mercy by the end of the night.”

    “Um, do I want to be begging for mercy?” I shift my feet and wiggle my butt. The stool I’m on is wobbly and I can’t seem to get comfortable.

    “Hell yeah you want to beg. Don’t you see what I mean about the lumberjack vibe?” she murmurs, her eyelids drooping and her lips parting for air.

    “For all we know that guy could be a firefighter or play football or be someone who knits tea cozies with his grandma.”

    “I don’t care. He’s still got it.” In a sing-song voice, she goes on to croon, “It’s goin’ down, I’m yelling timber!”

     “You better move, you better dance!” I finish the familiar lyrics for her and we both snort in laughter.

     Smith puts his hand up beside his face and turns away. “It’s going to be that kind of night, isn’t it?”

     Julie glances at him then bursts into another round of laughter. “Aw, lighten up.”

     Someone bumps my arm. It’s Claudia. Her hands are full of our drinks and some napkins. “Is Smith being a grouch?”

     “He’s being a guy.” I smile, enjoying the newfound camaraderie with Julie’s friends.
When was the last time I felt like this? In L.A., everyone we hung out with belonged to Ren in some way or the other. 

    “How about him?” Julie points out a guy with shaggy black hair who is sitting at a table with a girl.

    “Jules, I think he’s on a date.”
    “So?”

    “So?” I repeat, glaring at her.

    “Corner him when he gets up to go to the bathroom. I’m pretty sure he was checking you out something fierce. And, hey, there will be no slut-shaming from me.”

   
My eyes roll with amusement. “You are out of control.”

    “That’s the way I like it!” she crows.

    I laugh, my head lolling and my eyes skipping down the bar where they land on a broad, muscular back.

    Holy Hot Bartender.

    He’s easily six feet tall. Low-slung dark jeans cling to his legs and narrow hips. He reaches for a glass on a high shelf and his snug black shirt rises, exposing a slice of skin and I note that he’s got on boxer briefs.
Pro move
.

    “And who is
that
?” I ask, taking note of the long lines of his body and the unruly brown hair that lightens to a shimmery gold at the tips. I can feel my heart beating in my ears and the back of my mouth. 

    Without even looking up, Claudia answers, “My brother.”

    “Your brother?” My mouth bobs for a second.

    “Yes.”

    “Your
brother
?”

   
Now Claudia looks at me. “Yeah, Landon is my brother. My fraternal twin actually,
and
he’s in 8B so that makes him another one of your new neighbors.”

    Landon must hear Claudia say his name because he swivels in our direction and flashes a lazy salute, giving me a glimpse of his clean-shaven face and his tanned, sinewy forearms.

   
Wow.

    I glance sideways at Julie and whisper gruffly, “Is everyone in San Diego your neighbor?”

    She merely shrugs, already turning back to Smith. Me? I’m stuck with a flock of wild birds trapped inside my chest.

    I watch Claudia’s brother—Landon—brace
his left arm on the edge of the bar and tap his long fingers impatiently against the surface as someone asks him a question. He nods once, picks up a silver shaker, pours the clear liquid into a tall ice-filled glass, garnishes it with a slice of lime and slides it across the top of the bar in one smooth movement.

    Now that I’m looking for it, I see the resemblance between the siblings—the serious, almost pouty mouth and the thin, narrow nose set off between large, dark eyes. On Claudia, the features are soft and pretty. On her brother, they manage to be masculine and handsome. Go figure.

    “So Claudia,” I start, tipping back and taking a sip of my drink. My stomach is rolling over itself and I am dangerously close to breaking into a sweat. Is this what Julie was talking about when she mentioned static?

   
I clear my throat loudly. Then
I fall off my stool.

    Seriously.

    I.

    Fall.

    Off.

    My.

    Stool.

   
Floor, this is Gemma.

    Gemma, this is Floor.

    I know how it sounds—like the move of a befuddled Jane Austen reader who has just encountered a real-life Mr. Darcy. And I
am
actually a Jane Austen reader, but I swear it’s not like that.

    I swear!

    Sure, my mind is catching fire with possibilities, my hands are clammy and my breathing is ragged. And yes, Claudia’s brother is hot, but that’s not why I’m sprawled on the floor of a bar flashing the world my pink and white underwear.

    It’s not.

    The heel of my shoe got caught on the bottom rung of the barstool and I lost my balance and tipped over. Because
gravity.

    Once I’m upright again with my dress back in place, and Julie and Smith have recovered from a spell of raucous laughter, I risk a brief glance in Landon’s direction.

    He’s staring at me. One brow is arched. His arms are crossed over his chest. His eyes are full of hard edges and his mouth is straight and tight—not even a little friendly.   

    Great, I’m on a rebound mission and the first guy I find interesting thinks I’m either a mental patient or a total drunk. I consider grabbing Julie’s hand and making a quick dash for the nearest exit as I shout
Abort! Abort!

    Claudia, who took my fall quite well, says, “Gemma, I have an idea.”