The women on this island are mindblowingly beautiful. It's a fact I can't escape. One I don't try hard to, because it's torturous, but I can't want it to stop. If the schoolgirls waiting for the bus drove me crazy back home, this seems like the price to pay for already being out of my mind
( ... )
It might be the dress, it might be the overall mood of the place - but something has me moving to order that martini tonight instead of the beer this place seems to be known for. The vodka is stronger, burns a little more in the back of my throat, and I'm careful to order it extra dirty - not because I necessarily like the taste of olives but because I need that bitterness, just enough to cut into the strength of the alcohol so I'm not bowled over within the first three sips. It's what makes it possible for me to get through the first without stumbling, and then another. I'm not necessarily seeking out conversation tonight, but I'm not exactly closing myself off to it either. Even at this hour, there's probably people who are feeling just as restless as I am, and sooner or later, I'm sure I'll make out a familiar face in my slightly dimmer surroundings before I stumble back to the Compound with my shoes in one hand
( ... )
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
( ... )
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 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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
"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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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. JudgmentAnd 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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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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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