The woods around our house on Potshot Road used to be thick with deer. I don't mean a handful, a family; I mean, so many anybody wandering by with a gun could take a potshot and take one down. It's how the street got its nickname. I remember seeing them when I was a kid, creeping into our yard to steal dog food in the early morning dew, though most of the time, Mom would make me and Amber stay inside when they began migrating our way, afraid we'd get shot.
She reminds me of them, though. The warm brown eyes, the long, slender limbs, the trace of skittishness in the way she first holds her glass. The half-imagined promise of danger. The calm before the guns go off.
It's not an invitation, but she's not hustling me away either or laughing because I'm too young or anything like that, and that's encouragement enough. The last girl I hoped to get lucky with before Callie turned out to be a disaster, but I'm not going to make that same mistake here. This one's about as far from Ashlee as it gets. Mustering up all the confidence I can manage, admittedly bolstered a bit by the beer though I haven't really had much yet, I say, "So this seat's not taken then."
At most, I'm expecting indifference. I'm predicting a smirk of some kind, that cocksure sign of confidence that gives him an air far beyond his years of - well, however old he is. There's nothing in his overall demeanor that gives me any sign one way or another, but there's also this - almost shyness, I'm tempted to say, this tentative approach he has while still managing to insert himself into the conversation. It might be the two drinks I've already had tonight, but I can't read him either way, sure or unsure, comfortable or not. But I can handle small talk; I should hope I'd be able to manage that much, at least. I'd be insulting my very profession if I couldn't rely on my ability to talk, no matter the amount of alcohol currently coursing through my bloodstream.
I can feel my lips edging upward at the corners with the hint of a smile, and I shake my head slowly, feeling a few pieces of hair fall free from where I've pinned it up off the back of my neck, tickling my skin just enough to be slightly irritating. I reach up to brush them away and then indicate the nearby barstool with the same hand. "Not as far as I know," I say, moving to pluck the lone olive out of the glass and pulling it off with my teeth. I manage not to embarrass myself by at least remembering to chew before adding, "You're new, aren't you." It starts off as a question but doesn't really end up that way.
I try not to stare, but I can't help it, the motion of her hand pulling my gaze to the long slope of her neck as I slip into the seat beside her. She bites the olive off its pick and between the two, I imagine for a flash how soft her skin must be, the ease with which my hands on might leave bruises, and I don't know if I should be sickened or turned on, but it's mostly the latter.
Glancing up as my drink comes, I murmur a thanks before looking back to her with a nod. It's almost a relief to stop looking, and then it's a relief to look again. "Couple weeks," I say. Everyone always knows. There's another guy around here who looks a lot like me and it spooked me when I spotted him at a distance the other day, but they still know, even though he's been here longer. It's bigger here than Black Lick, but there's a small town mentality. Everyone knows their neighbors. "I'm Harley."
I make it a point to know faces. Ever since last year, after what happened to David - and to me, in turn - it's something I catch myself doing unconsciously, memorizing those distinguishing features or marks in case I need to pick them out later. I can't say it's not entirely based on paranoia, but then again, I don't think anyone would be able to blame me for my suspicions after my former boss tried to have me killed. Not exactly the kind of thing that allows you to walk through life carefree and ignorant, not once you've seen the world's evils.
"Don't worry," I murmur, smiling in what I'm hoping is a reassuring way. "I barely have you beat by a few weeks, but I think I'm still considered a newcomer." I'm pretty sure it'll stay that way until I can think of my time here in years, if it'll even last that long. From what I hear, people tend to disappear as unexpectedly as they show up, so I'm not going to hold my breath if I wake up one morning back in the hotel room. "I'm Ellen," I softly add, offering him my hand. Some things, like the unconscious reflex of a polite introduction, I can't manage to turn off, despite the obvious buzz that's barely starting to slur syllables together.
My heart drops abruptly at the way she smiles. I don't know what I'm hoping for. Polite is damn good start, better than the alternatives, and it's not like a woman like this is going to come onto me out of nowhere. It's not just that she's hotter than any of the models in the Victoria's Secret catalogues I steal - stole - from Amber. Even with a couple drinks in her, she's classy, professional, with a polish most of the women I've known could only dream of - or think wasn't worth the time. And in spite of all that elegance, there's an uncontrollable thudding awareness in me of how I want to touch that dip of skin at the base of her back.
I take a gulp of my beer, grateful for the moment's distraction. It's not what I'm used to, but it's pretty damn good, especially at the price. "Ellen," I echo, reaching for her hand. The wounds on my own are all but faded now, her palm soft against my calloused one. My fingertips just brush the inside of her wrist before I remember myself - here, present, awake, real - and draw back. "I'm pretty sure everyone who's been here under a year's considered a newcomer."
There was the temptation to get sloppy tonight, but a part of that desire is slowly disappearing. Not to mention it'd be a pretty dumb move for me to switch to beer now instead of staying with the liquor, given the old saying, but I know my limits. I know what I can handle. I'm drinking until I can't anymore and if that means numbing myself in the process until Patty's face isn't swimming in my head, then so be it. I make a face, quirking my lips together slightly and then nodding in agreement with his words.
One thing I like about the dress is that it hides the scar. Without it, I can tell when people manage to catch a glimpse. And the dress might be plunging in the back, but the neckline is high enough to shroud the lingering silver-light evidence of the blade that was once pressed there. Just the same, it's habit that has me reaching towards it now, my hand letting go of his as I run the tip of my index finger along the place where black silk ends and skin starts. "Well, maybe that's a sign that us newcomers need to stick together," I say, dropping my hand to reach for the glass, downing its remaining contents in one fell sip.
It could be nothing at all, but it's enough to bolster my confidence. Weight heavy on the bar, I lean slightly toward her, afraid to push it and chase her off, wanting to be closer. "Maybe it is," I answer. "Keep each other company. Look down our noses at the new kids if we're still around in a year."
I don't want a year with her. Even if I did, even if I knew her and wanted that, I'd never ask for it. All I want is a night. All I want is to push that fabric up her thigh and touch warm skin. To kiss her. I'm not great at it or anything, but I'm getting better. I think I am, anyway. I hope. Even though it's only been a couple weeks since I last saw Callie, it's starting to feel like I'll never get another chance with a woman to find out.
There's a part of me that wants to tell her that, because it feels like maybe I should be honest or maybe I should just keep drinking until it doesn't really matter. Or because she might hear that and haul off and slap me and I'd deserve it, though she's already more of a person than Ashlee was, or she might run like she should. Or she might agree.
"What, you're not going to be the welcome wagon a year from now?" I tease. It's almost a surprise, how easy that comes, naturally falling into joking with him like it's something I've been doing for hours already instead of mere minutes. There's no question that it's the drinks working, but that doesn't mean I've reached my limit for the night. Not by a long shot.
I eventually find the bartender down at the other end. Our eyes meet and I raise my empty glass, indicating my desire for another to follow in its wake. There's barely a chime when I set the glass back down against the bar and nudge it away, waiting for its successor, and I glance over at Harley again, trying to gauge the status of the beer. "What about you? Need another, or are you still working on that one?"
My martini arrives before his answer does and I pluck up the pick containing the olive, using it to slowly stir the drink, almost transfixed by the movement before I snap myself out of that self-induced reverie with a sigh and a slow smile. "At least we won't have to worry about paying for these after," I admit. There are other ways to pay for getting too drunk, is what I don't say, not out loud.
She's not the only one mesmerized by that little motion. Her fingers are long, slender, neat. I can't for the life of me place what she was back home, because she could have been just about anything, anyone. But then, I guess that's the idea of this place, at least according to the people around here. I don't have a clue about her past and she doesn't know a thing about mine and it doesn't mean shit. I doubt I could pass for much more than a normal guy, but these days I'll count myself lucky if I can manage that. She doesn't know who my mom is, doesn't know the story everyone in the county knows - true or otherwise - about how she shot him dead in his own kitchen, a father of four. Sure, he was an abusive prick, but who isn't in our neighborhood? He was still my dad.
"I'm good, thanks," I say, giving her a smile, the first genuine one of the day. She's beautiful and classy and she's laughing with me, not at me. There's no sympathy, no concern, no pity or fear or hate in those warm eyes, no hungry curiosity searching for a piece of gossip, no disdain. There's interest. There's kindness. There's a hint of laughter that makes me want her even more.
"Yeah, thank God for that," I add. Even more than the cost of drinks, though, I'm thankful for the drinking age around here being considerably lower than at home. It saves me having to hope the bartender won't ask to see my ID. "There are definitely a few benefits to being here." I'm pretty sure I'm looking at one of them.
There's something different about this drink and it hits me right as I take that first sip - it's stronger than either of the others have been, but I can't help wondering how much of that is the amount of vodka that's been mixed in, whether or not the guy working the bar remembered to make it dirty or if this is just all of it hitting me at once, building and coursing through my bloodstream until it boils over in my head and starts to really have an effect. What's the first thing to go again? Oh, right. There's a sincerity in his smile that I find myself mimicking even as I think the word. Judgment.
And then I can't help but think about Patty, goddamn Patricia Hewes, with her self-righteous smirk that she wears as permanently as those pantsuits, the judgment brimming on the very surface of her tone, and what she would be saying to me if she could see me right now, shaking her head and uttering my name in the way that makes me feel like a naive law student all over again - no, younger than that. Like a child, waiting to be doled out the punishment from her teacher. A teacher who tried to have her killed. A teacher who kept her close in order to use the people in her life to further her own ends.
"I'll say," I agree, and there's a thickness in my throat that I can't entirely attribute to the alcohol, but that doesn't stop me from taking another sip, swallowing slowly, and as I glance over at him, my lips part for another smile. That one comes easier.
It's two words, a simple agreement, but I feel like there's worlds behind I don't get. Not like that's new or anything. It's not that I'm saying women speak a different language or anything. That'd be easy, because eventually you could pick it up, get fluent. Eventually I might understand. I've been surrounded by them my whole life and there are things I get, things I've learned painstakingly. A different language would be simple. The hard part is, every single one of them is speaking something entirely else. She says "I'll say," and it's like it's hidden behind fifteen layers of code and only the top one means "yes" and "I agree."
I'm not going to flatter myself that any of the other fourteen have to do with me, but beneath the shiver of irritation is a whole lot of curiosity, and that's almost equally as annoying. She's a stranger and as interesting as she is, she doesn't need to be more than that. I don't need to know her story or where she grew up or what she was doing the day she got here - that worst possible moment, Carla Jean would say. I don't think I want to know.
"So you like it here," I suggest anyway, pushing just a little. If nothing else, it probably means there's no boyfriend she's pining for. I'll take any points in my favor I can get.
For the briefest of moments, I almost feel bad about being so cryptic, but it's all too easy to remember what I'd learned during my time at Hewes & Associates. I'm not about to release a hold on every single barrier I've put up now in the hopes of lending a little more clarification to my words, but I'm not going to play the mysterious card either. Women are all about that nowadays, the air of mystery surrounding them, but I have my own reasons for hiding the complete and total truth, and it has nothing to do with being mysterious.
"I do," I confess, and I can let that slip through at least, allowing my shoulders to become slightly more relaxed as I lean forward in my seat, over the bar slightly. My fingers reach for the pick to stir again, wrist slowly rolling without my having to watch it to get the movement down, even though I can see the drink swirl and whorl out of the corner of my eye. Besides, I'd be lying if I said I didn't find something intriguing about him, something that deserved full attention. We probably look like an interesting twosome, between my dress and his jeans, but I'm not going to turn someone away for conversation simply because of what they're wearing.
"I needed to get away from - work, for starters," I finish, and that's still sticking to the truth, even if it barely skims the surface while encompassing one too many memories. "I'd already left the firm, but this was exactly the kind of forced vacation I needed. So while I'm here, for however long a time that is, I plan to enjoy myself."
It's not that the women back home didn't have careers or anything, but most of the ones I knew were sisters and moms and not much else. There isn't much to be around there, and it's got nothing to do with gender. The idea of firms and work and forced vacations is foreign in and of itself, and for a second, I think of wrapping things up and saying goodnight, because I don't have a shot in hell.
Except she's talking to me, she's still here, I do have a chance and there's no point in running off now. At worst, I get a little conversation from a hot girl and I go back to the hut no worse off than I already was. It's not nothing.
"Sounds like a solid plan to me," I tell her, setting my glass back down. My reasons for wanting to get away are totally different, but my plan is, tentatively, the same. It's hard to have much of an idea of what to do around here when I can't completely fight off the guilt of being away when I'm supposed to be the head of the house. I have to keep reminding myself I don't owe them my life. That it's not like I chose this. I didn't just abandon them, even though I could have, any day of the last two years. I could have, but I never did. "You know, it's, it's good. You get to take a break and relax for a change. Have a little fun."
It's almost strange, but I don't feel scrutinized in any way, don't feel like I'm being placed on the end of a microscope and studied so intensely that I think I might shrivel up from the heat. Sure, there are moments when I catch him staring from time to time, but I don't feel awkward. If anything, I'm more aware, some senses placed on higher alert while others are slightly more numbed. It's what I was going for when I set out for this place tonight, though, so I'm not complaining.
"That's the plan," I declare, taking another sip from the glass and reaching to pluck out the olive before I forget it's there and embarrass myself by some other means. When I pull it off, nudging it to the inside of my cheek to bite, there's a moment when the movement down on the opposite side of the bar catches my eye and I absently run the pointed end of the pick across my lower lip, gently pressing against the swell.
"And this is where it starts, too. Right here, in this dress and with these drinks," I tell him, tearing my gaze away from the blurred faces down the other end and directing it back to him. This is the first night I've really let my hair down, so to speak, and in a very long time. "And with you, apparently," I add, a little softer, almost absently.
I'm still watching her mouth when she looks back at me. It's impossible to look elsewhere when she does things like that, when her lips are full and pink and I can only think of having them on me, anywhere at all, her cheeks flushing. It's warm out, I'm warm, even having left my dad's jacket in the hut for once.
That's not it and I know it, or it's not all of it, but I can't care when she says things like that. She's got a plan, I tell myself, she's old enough to know what she's doing. I don't answer right away, swallowing my heart back into my chest first. "With me," I echo, both a question and agreement. "I like that plan." I don't think I could make a bigger understatement if I tried. It occurs to me that Ellen might be leading me on and this ends with her laughing at me the way I'm pretty sure Brandy does from time to time when she remembers I ever existed, but if there's a sliver of a chance that I have a shot with her, I don't care.
I don't even care that there's a traitorous part of me that just wants to smooth her hair back and take care of her, if only just to prove I can, that I'm capable. It's been two weeks since I last saw Callie. It's not like we were dating or anything, there's nothing keeping me from being with someone else for a night, but it seems like that makes it even more important it not mean anything, not even a little. She's a person, though, soft and kind and in need of a vacation, and despite the idea she was something serious and respectable and grown-up back home, wherever that is, right now she just seems young. Sweet. I'd ask her what it is she did, but what she needs is an escape. And so do I.
I've resumed the pressure of the pick, the light pinprick of contact against my lower lip, pushing just hard enough for it to hurt a little but not enough to draw blood. It's not sharp enough for that, not really, but there's a part of me that wants to know what it would feel like if it did, breaking past the first layer and then the drop of salty red that would blossom, lingering there until I sucked it away. But then I start thinking about the blood, all of the blood, David's blood over me, covering my hands, my clothes, running down the city streets with nothing but a coat covering blood and skin and silk, and I frown in thought, dropping the pick on the bar and resting my hand against the wooden surface instead, its top mottled by age and use. It's seen more patrons than just the two of us in all the years it's been here, enough time for someone to take a knife, to smash a bottle, to stumble and catch themselves against the leverage of its edges.
"Unless you're not willing to assume that kind of a responsibility," I add, chuckling quietly. There's a degree of teasing in it, of levity, trying to make the remark imply less than it does, but my gaze lingers on him a little too long for it to mean absolutely nothing. I straighten up, hips pivoting again, just enough to ease my legs over to one side, crossing them at the knee, and the hem of the skirt hitches up to reveal a little more thigh. I'm not worried.
"The plan, as it stands, is to enjoy a few drinks, and then maybe walk along the beach until daytime. That was the plan for me, anyway." I still intend on potentially going through with it, unless given a compelling reason to do otherwise. "What are your plans, Harley?"
She reminds me of them, though. The warm brown eyes, the long, slender limbs, the trace of skittishness in the way she first holds her glass. The half-imagined promise of danger. The calm before the guns go off.
It's not an invitation, but she's not hustling me away either or laughing because I'm too young or anything like that, and that's encouragement enough. The last girl I hoped to get lucky with before Callie turned out to be a disaster, but I'm not going to make that same mistake here. This one's about as far from Ashlee as it gets. Mustering up all the confidence I can manage, admittedly bolstered a bit by the beer though I haven't really had much yet, I say, "So this seat's not taken then."
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I can feel my lips edging upward at the corners with the hint of a smile, and I shake my head slowly, feeling a few pieces of hair fall free from where I've pinned it up off the back of my neck, tickling my skin just enough to be slightly irritating. I reach up to brush them away and then indicate the nearby barstool with the same hand. "Not as far as I know," I say, moving to pluck the lone olive out of the glass and pulling it off with my teeth. I manage not to embarrass myself by at least remembering to chew before adding, "You're new, aren't you." It starts off as a question but doesn't really end up that way.
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Glancing up as my drink comes, I murmur a thanks before looking back to her with a nod. It's almost a relief to stop looking, and then it's a relief to look again. "Couple weeks," I say. Everyone always knows. There's another guy around here who looks a lot like me and it spooked me when I spotted him at a distance the other day, but they still know, even though he's been here longer. It's bigger here than Black Lick, but there's a small town mentality. Everyone knows their neighbors. "I'm Harley."
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"Don't worry," I murmur, smiling in what I'm hoping is a reassuring way. "I barely have you beat by a few weeks, but I think I'm still considered a newcomer." I'm pretty sure it'll stay that way until I can think of my time here in years, if it'll even last that long. From what I hear, people tend to disappear as unexpectedly as they show up, so I'm not going to hold my breath if I wake up one morning back in the hotel room. "I'm Ellen," I softly add, offering him my hand. Some things, like the unconscious reflex of a polite introduction, I can't manage to turn off, despite the obvious buzz that's barely starting to slur syllables together.
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I take a gulp of my beer, grateful for the moment's distraction. It's not what I'm used to, but it's pretty damn good, especially at the price. "Ellen," I echo, reaching for her hand. The wounds on my own are all but faded now, her palm soft against my calloused one. My fingertips just brush the inside of her wrist before I remember myself - here, present, awake, real - and draw back. "I'm pretty sure everyone who's been here under a year's considered a newcomer."
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One thing I like about the dress is that it hides the scar. Without it, I can tell when people manage to catch a glimpse. And the dress might be plunging in the back, but the neckline is high enough to shroud the lingering silver-light evidence of the blade that was once pressed there. Just the same, it's habit that has me reaching towards it now, my hand letting go of his as I run the tip of my index finger along the place where black silk ends and skin starts. "Well, maybe that's a sign that us newcomers need to stick together," I say, dropping my hand to reach for the glass, downing its remaining contents in one fell sip.
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I don't want a year with her. Even if I did, even if I knew her and wanted that, I'd never ask for it. All I want is a night. All I want is to push that fabric up her thigh and touch warm skin. To kiss her. I'm not great at it or anything, but I'm getting better. I think I am, anyway. I hope. Even though it's only been a couple weeks since I last saw Callie, it's starting to feel like I'll never get another chance with a woman to find out.
There's a part of me that wants to tell her that, because it feels like maybe I should be honest or maybe I should just keep drinking until it doesn't really matter. Or because she might hear that and haul off and slap me and I'd deserve it, though she's already more of a person than Ashlee was, or she might run like she should. Or she might agree.
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I eventually find the bartender down at the other end. Our eyes meet and I raise my empty glass, indicating my desire for another to follow in its wake. There's barely a chime when I set the glass back down against the bar and nudge it away, waiting for its successor, and I glance over at Harley again, trying to gauge the status of the beer. "What about you? Need another, or are you still working on that one?"
My martini arrives before his answer does and I pluck up the pick containing the olive, using it to slowly stir the drink, almost transfixed by the movement before I snap myself out of that self-induced reverie with a sigh and a slow smile. "At least we won't have to worry about paying for these after," I admit. There are other ways to pay for getting too drunk, is what I don't say, not out loud.
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"I'm good, thanks," I say, giving her a smile, the first genuine one of the day. She's beautiful and classy and she's laughing with me, not at me. There's no sympathy, no concern, no pity or fear or hate in those warm eyes, no hungry curiosity searching for a piece of gossip, no disdain. There's interest. There's kindness. There's a hint of laughter that makes me want her even more.
"Yeah, thank God for that," I add. Even more than the cost of drinks, though, I'm thankful for the drinking age around here being considerably lower than at home. It saves me having to hope the bartender won't ask to see my ID. "There are definitely a few benefits to being here." I'm pretty sure I'm looking at one of them.
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And then I can't help but think about Patty, goddamn Patricia Hewes, with her self-righteous smirk that she wears as permanently as those pantsuits, the judgment brimming on the very surface of her tone, and what she would be saying to me if she could see me right now, shaking her head and uttering my name in the way that makes me feel like a naive law student all over again - no, younger than that. Like a child, waiting to be doled out the punishment from her teacher. A teacher who tried to have her killed. A teacher who kept her close in order to use the people in her life to further her own ends.
"I'll say," I agree, and there's a thickness in my throat that I can't entirely attribute to the alcohol, but that doesn't stop me from taking another sip, swallowing slowly, and as I glance over at him, my lips part for another smile. That one comes easier.
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I'm not going to flatter myself that any of the other fourteen have to do with me, but beneath the shiver of irritation is a whole lot of curiosity, and that's almost equally as annoying. She's a stranger and as interesting as she is, she doesn't need to be more than that. I don't need to know her story or where she grew up or what she was doing the day she got here - that worst possible moment, Carla Jean would say. I don't think I want to know.
"So you like it here," I suggest anyway, pushing just a little. If nothing else, it probably means there's no boyfriend she's pining for. I'll take any points in my favor I can get.
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"I do," I confess, and I can let that slip through at least, allowing my shoulders to become slightly more relaxed as I lean forward in my seat, over the bar slightly. My fingers reach for the pick to stir again, wrist slowly rolling without my having to watch it to get the movement down, even though I can see the drink swirl and whorl out of the corner of my eye. Besides, I'd be lying if I said I didn't find something intriguing about him, something that deserved full attention. We probably look like an interesting twosome, between my dress and his jeans, but I'm not going to turn someone away for conversation simply because of what they're wearing.
"I needed to get away from - work, for starters," I finish, and that's still sticking to the truth, even if it barely skims the surface while encompassing one too many memories. "I'd already left the firm, but this was exactly the kind of forced vacation I needed. So while I'm here, for however long a time that is, I plan to enjoy myself."
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Except she's talking to me, she's still here, I do have a chance and there's no point in running off now. At worst, I get a little conversation from a hot girl and I go back to the hut no worse off than I already was. It's not nothing.
"Sounds like a solid plan to me," I tell her, setting my glass back down. My reasons for wanting to get away are totally different, but my plan is, tentatively, the same. It's hard to have much of an idea of what to do around here when I can't completely fight off the guilt of being away when I'm supposed to be the head of the house. I have to keep reminding myself I don't owe them my life. That it's not like I chose this. I didn't just abandon them, even though I could have, any day of the last two years. I could have, but I never did. "You know, it's, it's good. You get to take a break and relax for a change. Have a little fun."
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"That's the plan," I declare, taking another sip from the glass and reaching to pluck out the olive before I forget it's there and embarrass myself by some other means. When I pull it off, nudging it to the inside of my cheek to bite, there's a moment when the movement down on the opposite side of the bar catches my eye and I absently run the pointed end of the pick across my lower lip, gently pressing against the swell.
"And this is where it starts, too. Right here, in this dress and with these drinks," I tell him, tearing my gaze away from the blurred faces down the other end and directing it back to him. This is the first night I've really let my hair down, so to speak, and in a very long time. "And with you, apparently," I add, a little softer, almost absently.
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That's not it and I know it, or it's not all of it, but I can't care when she says things like that. She's got a plan, I tell myself, she's old enough to know what she's doing. I don't answer right away, swallowing my heart back into my chest first. "With me," I echo, both a question and agreement. "I like that plan." I don't think I could make a bigger understatement if I tried. It occurs to me that Ellen might be leading me on and this ends with her laughing at me the way I'm pretty sure Brandy does from time to time when she remembers I ever existed, but if there's a sliver of a chance that I have a shot with her, I don't care.
I don't even care that there's a traitorous part of me that just wants to smooth her hair back and take care of her, if only just to prove I can, that I'm capable. It's been two weeks since I last saw Callie. It's not like we were dating or anything, there's nothing keeping me from being with someone else for a night, but it seems like that makes it even more important it not mean anything, not even a little. She's a person, though, soft and kind and in need of a vacation, and despite the idea she was something serious and respectable and grown-up back home, wherever that is, right now she just seems young. Sweet. I'd ask her what it is she did, but what she needs is an escape. And so do I.
"So what's the plan exactly?"
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"Unless you're not willing to assume that kind of a responsibility," I add, chuckling quietly. There's a degree of teasing in it, of levity, trying to make the remark imply less than it does, but my gaze lingers on him a little too long for it to mean absolutely nothing. I straighten up, hips pivoting again, just enough to ease my legs over to one side, crossing them at the knee, and the hem of the skirt hitches up to reveal a little more thigh. I'm not worried.
"The plan, as it stands, is to enjoy a few drinks, and then maybe walk along the beach until daytime. That was the plan for me, anyway." I still intend on potentially going through with it, unless given a compelling reason to do otherwise. "What are your plans, Harley?"
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