Love and Lies (Small Town Secrets Book 1), page 8
“Across the street. You had a lot of traffic here last night.”
“I don’t know that I’d walk barefoot here, Casey.”
No way was I putting on those goddamned heels—not the way I felt. “It’s asphalt, Scott. I’ll be fine.” He sighed but didn’t argue.
When we got to my car, I said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you later.”
God, for some stupid reason, I felt awkward. Maybe it was because it felt like we had so much to say but didn’t know how to say it. He nodded, and I could feel him on the verge of something, but just standing there waiting made me feel stupid. Once I got in, Scott said, “Maybe we can hang out sometime together—just you and me.”
Holy shit.
That was worth waiting for.
“I’d love that, Scott. And hopefully I’ll be in better shape then.”
“You better be.” He held out his fist, playfully touching my chin. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest?”
I went home. But it took me forever to get to sleep, and it wasn’t because of the headache.
I felt the sensation of falling—but it couldn’t be love. Still, it was pleasant enough that I didn’t want to let it go.
Chapter Eleven
There’s a lot to be said for the miracles of water, boxed macaroni and cheese, Tylenol, and a warm bath. Those four things nursed me back to optimum health just in time for my shift that night at Bob’s. By the time I got in my car to head there, the headache was dull background noise that I knew would be gone when I finally went to bed—maybe even in the next hour or so, but it was easier to ignore now.
Maybe when I reached the age of thirty, I’d stop drinking so damn much.
If nothing else, at least I wouldn’t use my own indiscretions and stupidity as an excuse to call off from work. Even had I felt like utter shit, I would have gone in. Had I known how crazy an evening we were going to have, I might have reconsidered my noble tendency. The parking lot was packed, so much so that the spaces ordinarily reserved for employees were taken, so I had to park farther away. That wasn’t a huge deal, but I wondered what the hell was going on. It wasn’t a holiday. It was just another Saturday night.
When I walked in, still ten minutes early, the assistant manager asked me to go ahead and clock in, so I did, then put my things away and grabbed an apron. Seeing both Scott and David in the kitchen helped me relax. The three of us worked well together, even under a lot of stress. Scott was manning the grill, packed with various cuts of meat, and David seemed to be moving back and forth between the fryer and sous stations—inefficient, but there were just two of them.
“Where do you want me?”
“Oh, Casey, my love,” David said, “thank God you’re here.”
Scott said, “Sous,” and then turned his attention back to the grill.
“What’s going on?”
“Ed put a two-for-one coupon in the paper that expires tonight. That’s all I can figure.”
Not that it mattered. We were freaking busy and needed to hustle. After a few minutes, I got in the groove and we became a machine, getting quality food out quickly. The truth of the matter was I much preferred being busy to being bored. I liked my slow times to be off the clock.
Two hours later, we were wiping down counters, performing general kitchen triage. But ten minutes later, our pace had slowed with only one order trickling in. David said, “Why don’t you guys go take your breaks so I can go home, okay?”
I’d been in the middle of restocking my area. “What the hell are you in such a hurry for?”
He grinned. “I have a friend coming over for a late dinner. I’d like to impress him with my cooking prowess.”
I wondered if it was the guy from the party where I’d seen Scott playing with his band, but I didn’t want to be too nosy. “Oh…okay. Gotcha.” So I filled my cup with ice water and headed to the break area outside. It wasn’t much—a table and a few chairs on concrete, wedged between the storage shed and the gate to the trash dumpsters. It was warm out there as summer approached but cooler than the kitchen. Two waitresses were heading back inside when I sat down. Scott was already there, sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette. I lit one up too and sat across from him. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Once in a while.” He exhaled. “I get the urge on occasion.”
“I don’t understand that. I had a friend in college who’d do that, too. We’d be partying and she’d smoke three or four but then the next day she wouldn’t touch ‘em. Not me.”
He shrugged. “I can live without them.”
It was an expensive habit—only it wasn’t just a habit. It was an addiction, something I’d been coming to terms with. I just had to make up my mind that I didn’t want to do it anymore.
The lighting in the back left a bit to be desired. It was great during the daytime when the sun soaked the area, but at night, we had a flood light that didn’t quite reach the table and chairs and, beyond the fence, a light from the parking lot spilled over. Still, it was enough to see facial expressions, and I smiled at him before lighting up my own cigarette.
“I gotta say your legs looked much better without the jeans.”
I couldn’t help but snicker. “Yeah, but jeans leave much more to the imagination, don’t they? You know, add a little mystery?”
He lowered his brows. “Guess so. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
I raised my eyebrows but said nothing, afraid of playing the wrong card in this flirting game. As much as I loved men and sex, I’d never felt like an expert in the game—so I changed the subject. “How long have you and David been friends?”
Scott chuckled. “Friends? We’re cousins.”
“What? David never said anything about that.”
“Neither did I, but we are. So I guess that means we’ve been friends for most of our lives.” He sucked on the cigarette. “We both went to the same elementary and middle schools, so we were together all the time as kids. And, as we got older, he got picked on a lot. The rest of the world might be tolerant, but not Winchester.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So I took it upon myself to protect him, beating up all the fucking shitheads who picked on him. And when they said shit like, ‘Oh, you must be a fag, too,’ I beat them twice as hard.” Taking a last drag off the cigarette, he crushed it out in the coffee can on the table. “Dumb ass shitkickers eventually shut their mouths and left him alone. Although, honestly, it didn’t seem to be as bad once we were in high school.”
I wasn’t the fighting type—but I found it hot imagining Scott getting all righteous in some asshole’s face for picking on such a sweet soul as David. “He’s lucky he had you.”
He shook his head. “Not really. I made it worse a lot of times.”
“You were an ally.” I sat up, tossing my cigarette in the can, trying to get a good read of Scott’s expression, but the light was too dim.
“I’m not a saint, Casey.”
Something about the way he said the words grabbed me by the core and shook me. He stood up, turning to leave, and I did, too, letting my impulses guide me. I touched him on his forearm before he could get close to the door. “You say the word saint like that’s what everyone wants to be. I didn’t say that. But isn’t it okay to just be a good guy?”
Goddammit, why were his eyes in shadow?
“What makes you think I’m a good guy?”
“I can feel it in you, Scott. You can’t deny it.”
There was no hesitation from either of us. It was as if the electromagnetic forces inside the planet rushed inside every fiber of our nerves and guided us to one another. His mouth crashing into mine was firm at first, as if every objection he had to my words was fueling his motion, and I took him with equal force, wanting to assure him that I meant what I said. My hands were flat against his pecs as my lips parted, inviting him in to all of me.
I couldn’t taste the smoke he’d consumed moments earlier. As a smoker myself, I was immune to it. All I could taste was a flavor uniquely Scott, masculine, salty, and sweet, and my heart started drumming in my chest as my body flooded with a rush of chemicals a thousand times better than any nicotine buzz. As his kiss became more tender, as though he were asking for forgiveness, I felt his hands around my waist holding me close. Sweet, soft, and delicious, and had he continued, I would have been warm putty in his hands.
I’d never been kissed quite like that…where I could feel him down to the bottom of his soul.
There, he couldn’t hide from me.
Except then his lips left mine, bruised and cooling.
But he didn’t let me go yet. His voice was soft but I couldn’t get a grasp on the emotion behind it. “I don’t need redemption, Casey.”
Ah, but he didn’t tell me I was wrong. I opened my mouth to speak but he brought his index finger up and pressed it against my lips. When the door opened, nearly hitting Scott in the back, he let me go. “See you inside.”
“I didn’t say anything about redemption.” He didn’t hear me, of course, but the dishwasher and bus boy who came out did, and I gave them a weak smile before sitting back down, deep in thought and a rush of emotion.
When I went back in the kitchen, it was as if everything had changed. But nothing had. David and Scott did their pre-closing duties and got the hell out of there, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Scott was heavy on my mind—but until he was ready to talk, thoughts were all I’d have.
* * *
Should I have felt like I was riding high from Scott finally kissing me? I didn’t know. Ultimately, confusion reigned. Was the kiss a positive or negative thing? Were we closer now or farther apart?
When I got call from Isabel on Monday morning, I wasn’t prepared. “Do you want the good news first?”
Oh, there was bad news?
“Hit me with your worst.”
“I sold your painting.”
“That’s the bad news?”
She laughed. “You got some great reviews from the exhibition, Casey. Even though your painting wasn’t exactly what most people want, they are dying to see more from you. Bring me everything you’ve got.”
“Seriously?” I couldn’t stifle the giggle. “So what’s the bad news?”
“Silly. Bring me your stuff!” Was I really talking to prim and proper Isabel—acting spontaneous and happy?
Was I dreaming?
But she didn’t have to tell me twice. Like a pathetic schoolgirl in need of little encouragement, I rifled through all my work in my new “studio.” Now that I was unpacked and I’d actually started working on some pieces, I’d located a couple more acrylic paintings I thought Isabel might take, and they were framed and ready to go.
Still weird and avant garde? Check. Still somewhat surreal? You bet. Odd colors, bizarre imagery, an underlying message—I figured she’d dig them.
Unfortunately, she only took one—and it was another one with an urban theme. She also gave me a check for a couple hundred bucks, and I stopped myself from screaming with giddy joy. That could wait till later.
But now I knew exactly what sort of things to paint that she’d surely scoop up, and I was going to do lots more.
After loading up my car, I headed right back to the Sens Gallery, my head full of all kinds of happy plans. After I parked, I headed to the back of the car where I could scoop out the new pieces I wanted Isabel to check out, but I was interrupted by my phone. I didn’t recognize the number and, for a second, I hoped maybe it was Scott. But it couldn’t have been. The area code was from Denver.
It had to be Barry. Why hadn’t I thought to block his ass the first time he’d called?
But one fact remained—just like during our marriage, Barry still managed to fuck up even the best of my days.
Chapter Twelve
By the next week, things had settled back into “normal”—which really wasn’t anything close to that, but it was the closest thing I knew.
One night when I was working, Wendy kept glaring at me when she came to pick up her orders. And when she had to talk to the kitchen, she wouldn’t talk to me, even though I was the expediter. I was getting pissed off about it, but I couldn’t exactly call her on her shit in the middle of a dinner rush.
What the fuck was her problem?
If I’d been working with David that night, I would have asked him if it was just me or if she really was being nasty to me.
Instead, I would have to rely on my gut—and it told me Wendy was intentionally being bitchy. To me.
Later on, I took a break outside. The weather was getting a lot warmer, but it still wasn’t too hot outside. It was a welcome relief from the raging heat of the kitchen, especially with a little breeze.
Except for Wendy was out there at the table, puffing on her stupid vape pen. It always had a weird smell and she seemed to exhale lots more smoke than I did from my tiny cigarette. Another waitress was out there whispering with her, and as I smoked, I tried to decide if confronting Wendy would be worth the drama that would surely come from that interaction.
It might.
I waited until both waitresses got up to leave, and I said, “Wendy, do you have a minute?”
She shrugged. To the other waitress, she said, “I’ll be there in a sec.” Then she straightened her spine and gave me another crusty look. “What do you want?”
I continued to sit, hoping I was sending the signal that I wasn’t intimidated by her but also that this wasn’t a huge deal. “Have I done something to offend you? You’ve acted all night like you have a problem with me.”
My question seemed to take her off guard. Had she not expected me to be so direct?
“You’re dating Scott?”
Oh…I hadn’t expected her to be so direct. But at least maybe we were getting right to the point. Still—it was none of her business what was evolving between Scott and me. I sensed that I should play it cool. “He’s a nice guy. What’s it to you?” If, of course, she had designs for him—which I suspected she did—she’d have to work them out on her own.
Suddenly, though, she put on a concerned face. “I just wanted to warn you, woman to woman, not to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Get involved with Scott. It would be a huge mistake.”
I needed to call her on her bluff. Crushing out my cigarette, I stood but didn’t move closer to her. I remembered the conversation I’d overheard between her and another waitress weeks ago. “Why? It seems to me you think he’s pretty special.”
Her temper flared, but she didn’t raise her voice. “You know what? I thought so a long time ago. I guess maybe I do still care deep down.” She took a step in my direction but paused near the table. “But I think you should know, as one friend to another, that if you get involved with Scott, you get involved with Jim, too. And believe me, honey, it’s not worth it.”
God, I hoped my expression wasn’t betraying what was brewing inside. “What does that even mean?”
“That means Jim is a sick motherfucker…and he seems to think what belongs to Scott belongs to him.”
While I wasn’t a Jim fan and didn’t like the vibes I got from the guy, Scott seemed to be pretty much his own man. “You’re kidding, right?”
“If you don’t believe me, ask Julie.” Raising an eyebrow, she added, “Jim’s wife. Hell, ask Jim himself. Ask anybody.” She lowered her voice for emphasis. “But don’t ask Scott. He’ll say anything to get in your pants.” Before I could grill her more, she said, “I need to get back inside before they come searching for me.” And then she stomped through the door, a smug look on her face like she’d done the entire world a huge favor.
Wendy was no closer to being my friend after that exchange, but I wondered if anything she’d said was true or if it was her way of putting a wedge between me and Scott before we even had a chance to get started.
And how could I find out the truth?
One thing was certain—I would not ask Scott…and not because Wendy told me not to.
* * *
The next day, I came in for my scheduled shift to work at lunch. I was putting on one of the black bib aprons, tying it around my waist as I headed from the prep area to the kitchen. Jim was at the grill and Scott at the sous station talking. Fortunately, Jim was usually loud and boisterous, so I didn’t have to strain to overhear what he was saying.
“Just do it. Here.” Jim reached in his back pocket for his phone and handed it to Scott. “Just come by the house and say I left my phone here.”
Scott held it out to Jim. “I’m not gonna do that. It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not. Julie’s no dummy—so if you bring my cell by, it’s legit.”
“Take your damn phone.”
Jim did, but he said, “Six-thirty, man.” I walked over to the fry station but didn’t say a word. “I’m telling you, man, she’s tight.” Spatula still in hand, Jim held up both hands in front of his pecs, cupping the left one. “Bam. Out to hear and fucking luscious.”
Scott saw me even though he hadn’t acknowledged me yet. But he raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in my direction, causing Jim to look over at me. “Oh, hey, Casey. How’s it going?”
“Fine.” I had no idea what Jim had been talking about, but it wouldn’t take a genius to know he’d been talking about a woman’s breasts. And, ordinarily, I wouldn’t have thought twice about the situation except to think that Jim was being his usual piggy self. But, of course, Wendy’s words from the day before were still reverberating in my head.
Work and lunch seemed normal, even though once in a while Jim would say something to Scott I couldn’t hear or understand, which was probably better. Then again, my imagination was going to run with what I’d heard earlier, thanks to Wendy.
One thing was certain—I was pretty sure Jim hadn’t been talking about his wife when he’d been acting like a pig. That alone made me disgusted. It would be even worse if he had been. But maybe he’d been talking about a TV show or something. Really, it wasn’t any of my business and I was pissed that Wendy had poisoned my brain.
