This Sky (9 page)

    Smith must see something etched into my expression because he sets down his drink and gasps. “Oh no.”

    “Oh no?” Claudia asks.

    I wait another heartbeat. Take a breath. Redraw the features on my face.

    “Really Gemma?” he asks.

    “What?” I feign innocence.

    Julie rolls her eyes. “You’re not fooling anyone. You have a look.”

   “I don’t have a look,” I say automatically.

    “What’s the look?” Claudia asks, her eyes flicking over my face.

    Julie waits.

    “All right,” I admit, masking the crack in my voice with a well-timed cough. “Maybe I did have a look but it’s not like…
that
,” I finish, unable to come up with a better word.

    “I think it is like
that
,” Julie says, grabbing my hand and pulling it into her lap. 

    “Are we talking about rebounding again?” Claudia asks.

    “We’re talking about Gemma sizzling,” Julie tells her.

    “Ooh, with my brother?”

    “No,” I say, trying to sound more certain than I feel.

    Smith swoops his finger along the rim of his glass to gather a clump of red-stained sugar crystals. “Fair warning, Landon’s not really the type for whatever it is you were picturing in that head of yours.”

    I swallow back a laugh, simultaneously embarrassed and intrigued. “I wasn’t picturing anything.”

    He pops his finger between his lips to suck off the sugar. “Uh-huh. I have four sisters and Claudia to deal with. I understand the way you women work.”

    “I think what Smith is trying to say,” Claudia interjects, “is that nothing with my brother is simple or easy. Landon is complicated.”

    I lift an eyebrow. “Complicated?”

    “Like a difficult equation,” Claudia replies.

    “Brooding,” Smith offers clarification. “He’s exactly the kind of guy people are referring to when they call someone
damaged goods.
”

    “That’s not fair,” Claudia says to him
, frowning. Then she turns to face me. “He’s not bad news, Gemma. He’s—” She doesn’t finish her thought because all of the lights at Aunt Zola’s extinguish at once. The band stops playing and the voices around us stop, leaving the restaurant in a sudden, eerie kind of quiet.

    “What’s happening?” I whisper, feeling for Julie’s shoulder in the darkness.

    “And now!” a sharp voice booms from the overhead speakers. “Please welcome to the stage Lady Katarina!”

    The opening chords of a song slam into me. A bright pink spotlight pulses, drawing my attention to the stage. Standing amid the band is a performer in a sequined mermaid gown.

    I take in the darkly stained lips, glitter-tipped eyelashes and wildly poofed-up hair. I’m confused. It’s like being at the doctor’s office, waiting on the table, and Lady Gaga walks in with a stethoscope around her neck.

    “What is this?” I hiss, recognizing the music as an old Whitney Houston song.

    Smith whistles softly. “Girl, this is the Friday night drag show. Welcome to Aunt Zola’s!” 

    Before I can speak, Julie is whisking me closer to the stage. “Grab your drink!”

    I look back to the bar to where Landon is wiping the foam from the top of a beer with the flat part of a spoon and I get that same sensation that I had earlier—that nutso lurch in my chest.

    He lifts his face then, his dark eyes catching me. His mouth straightens and his thick eyebrows toss a question in my direction.

    I pinch my lips and tumble forward, grabbing ahold of Julie’s arm for balance. My drink sloshes over the rim of the glass, spilling into the valleys between my fingers and dripping down over my wrist. The skin on my arms explodes in a screen of tiny goose bumps.

    I’m not even cold. 

Landon

The girl from the gas station is sitting at my bar. At
my
bar.

    She’s wearing a blue dress.

    She wants a job.

    She’s staying in my apartment complex.

    She seems to be friends with my sister.

    What are the chances of this happening? A hundred thousand to one? A million?

    Narrow, almond-shaped eyes beneath a fringe of dark lashes. Soft lips painted red with gloss and the confetti of bar lights. Straight nose. Tousled whiskey-colored hair that falls past her shoulders to the middle of her back.

    I think back to earlier today at the gas station. The first thing I noticed about her was the Typhoon tour shirt she was wearing. Next, I took in the welcome sight of her cute ass in a pair of tight black leggings. Then, of course, I saw that she was having a shit day and on the verge of a total meltdown and I stopped paying attention to her ass.

    I’m not good with words and I’m definitely not the knight in shining armor type, but I’d had the sudden urge to help her out and I’d acted on it.

    Now, here I am, itching with nerves and feeling jacked up. I’m burning for a drink to calm my nerves, but I know that with my track record, that’s a terrible idea.

    I close my eyes briefly and turn away, purposefully keeping my back to her while I pour a line of Prairie Fires. I don’t want to look at Gemma Sayers again even if she is nice to look at. It’s not like she matters to me. I don’t give a fuck if she’s here or living in my apartment complex or if she gets a job at Aunt Zola’s. I give absolutely no fucks whatsoever.

    Flipping to the backside of the bar, I swipe away a few empty beer glasses and cash out a tab. Then I’m cracking my knuckles and rolling my shoulders. I just have to get through a few more hours.
Just a few more hours.

    Work can kick my ass, especially when I’ve had a long day of classes or I’m out on the water catching the evening swells like I was tonight. But when I was kicked off the tour two years ago, broke and wrecked in the worst possible way, I wasn’t choosy about jobs. I needed one and Claudia pulled some strings.

    “Another!”

    It’s just past ten a
nd the after work mix is thinning out and the party scene is starting to amp up. Katarina, six feet tall and offensive lineman material, just took to the stage in pantyhose, a skimpy dress and a crazy blue wig.

    Red Stripe straight from the bottle. Vodka tonic. A Cosmo with two limes for the chick at the end of the bar with a silver stud in her nose. Two mojitos, extra mint for
the couple groping each other in plain view. A glass of cabernet for one of Margot’s tables. A batch of shots for the bachelorette party.

    When things settle, I step back for a much-needed breather. My knee is still sore. The music and the clang of pumping heartbeats is leaking into my brain, dislodging restless thoughts and keeping me on edge.

    Cursing under my breath, I risk a glance in her direction.
Just one glance
that becomes two, that becomes three.

    I look too long. Too fucking hard.

    Gemma’s coppery hair is changing colors with the lights strobing out from above the stage. A slippery sheen of gold shines over the flat planes of her cheeks and highlights her mouth.

    I close my eyes, remembering the way her pulse thrummed at her neck when we were talking. I could see it beating beneath the smooth white skin curving over her collarbone. I saw the way she fought to keep her breath normal when I leaned in closer, and I’ll admit that it did things to me.
Jesus,
I am a twisted son of a bitch.

    I open my eyes and she’s still there, watching Katarina’s act intently, her slim body listing into Julie’s side. Her chin is raised and her lips are slightly parted. She says something and shifts her weight, discreetly glancing down to tug on the bottom of her bright blue dress. The overhead lights twinkle and I see a flash of her slender white legs. 

   
Looming,
she’d said, her grey eyes jittery and her fingers clutching her glass like a lifeline.
You’re looming.

   
And I had been. Looming and acting like a first-rate bastard.

    I’ve always sucked at small talk, but really, it’s a shit excuse for the way I acted toward her and I know it. The truth is that even without the band shirt and the
smudgy tears running down her pink cheeks, I had recognized her right away. Something sprouted in my chest and grew until it was pressing down on my heart.

    I probably could have handled things a hell of a lot better, but what do you do when someone shoves a grenade at you, pulls the pin and tells you to make the best of the situation? Fuck if I know.

    Unsettled, I force my gaze away from Gemma and give my attention to the ice machine. It’s starting to jam up again. I maneuver my finger between the cold metal of the dispenser and the plastic push button. Nothing happens even though I know a large hunk of ice is wedged tight in there, backing everything up. Bent over, my face hidden in the machine, I feel more than see someone step up beside me.
Claudia.

   
My shoulders lock up and my stomach goes tight. “Yeah?”

    “She’s pretty.” Claudia doesn’t need to say Gemma’s name.
She
is enough.

    Shoving my finger harder against the blocked ice, I wheel my head around and scowl at her. In response, she shrugs and glances away.

    “What, Landon? She is pretty.”

    “I hadn’t noticed,” I answer shortly.

    “Of course not,” she says, a slow smile spreads across the bottom half of her face. Her eyebrows twitch. “She didn’t know who you were.”

    “I doubt she follows surfing very closely.” Hitching my shoulders up, I turn and give my attention back to the ice machine. I try another jab, this time using my thumb and forcing some of my weight behind it. The chunk of ice breaks free, slipping past my fingers and clattering to the bottom of the metal sink. The machine responds with a low rumble of satisfaction.

    I wipe my hands on the thighs of my jeans, my eyes still on the shiny surface of the bar, and stand up to my full height.

    I don’t want to continue this pointless conversation with Claudia. Without looking at her, I find the stocking list on a shallow ledge and flip to the index of liquors stapled to the back. Then I begin the tedious job of checking it against the bottles lined up along the back shelf. I make quick notes of which bottles to send Vincent to the back for.

     Claudia is still watching me, that barely-there smile on her face.

    Annoyance squirms up my throat. “What is it?”

    Her eyes crinkle. “It’s nothing.”

    I can tell it’s not
nothing
.
This is my twin sister. I’ve known her since the womb and I know damn well when she’s holding back. I know how her mind weaves threads together and how she draws conclusions out of silence.

    “Just say it already. I know you’re going to share what’s on your mind with me eventually. You always do.”

    She lowers her face and absently touches a finger to one of the beer taps. Another beat of silence slides by. “You just seem more stirred up than usual and I was wondering if talking to Gemma had something to do with it. That’s all.”

   
That’s all.

   
I scowl some more. “Nope. Just tired. I had an exhausting session and I didn’t get a chance to go home and shower before work.”

    Claudia stays put, watching me carefully, her mouth twisting to one side. “Smith and I hung out with her at Jules’ place. She’s funny. And cute.”

    I clear my throat. “Why are you telling me this?”

     She makes a face. “I already mentioned the job to Jamie, and he said he’ll talk to her tonight. She’ll be a good fit here, don’t you think?”

    “I don’t think anything about her,” I say, keeping my voice purposefully flat.

    “Hmpff!” I can tell Claudia is starting to get frustrated. Her gaze skips toward the stage and she wrinkles her nose. “She just broke up with Ren Parkhurst.”

   
She’s on the rebound?

   
A lump rises in my throat but all I say is, “Okay?”

    “Are you kidding me?” My sister cocks one eyebrow at me in a challenge. She blows out a har
d breath and shakes her head. “I tell you that she dated Ren Parkhurst and you say
okay
? That’s all?”

    “What would you like me to say?”

    With a final eye roll, Claudia sighs and throws a
Landon, you’re hopeless
over her shoulder and walks off.

    I stand there for a good fifteen seconds, ignoring two drink requests that come my way. I’m looking down at my hands, watching the way my fingers are gripping the blue pen, shaking a little. I see myself write three small words in the margin of the stocking list.