Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Eight Banks

Chapter Eight

Banks

Dawson slams the Xbox controller down on the coffee table and stands up. “What a fucking dick. Can you believe that?”

I look at the screen, where his character was killed by whomever he’s up against. He’s never been the best at any video game we played, so I can believe it.

Right before he peels off the headphones, he says, “Don’t talk about my mom like that!”

He tosses the expensive gaming equipment onto the couch, ears red when he catches me gaping at him. “Dude,” I say slowly. “You realize you’re probably fighting with a twelve-year-old boy, right?”

Dawson turns the TV off. “Whatever. He cheated. I’m sure of it.”

Unlikely, but I go with it. “So what are your plans for the night? You said something about drinks, but then you got distracted by like a squirrel or something.”

He helps himself to a bottled Coca-Cola in my fridge, using the edge of the counter to pry off the cap, and ignores where it lands on the floor. “I’m taking our new neighbor and one of her friends to Lafitte’s over in New Orleans.”

Why is he taking them all the way there when there are bars nearby? “Wouldn’t it make more sense to take them somewhere around here? We both know how you get when you drink. I don’t think taking anybody to the city is the best idea if you’re going to indulge.”

He guzzles half the bottle before belching, smacking his chest. “Lafitte’s has the coolest vibe though. It’ll be funny to see if the ghost messes with them.”

Lafitte’s is said to be one of the most haunted bars in the French Quarter of New Orleans. The building used to be a blacksmith shop where the Lafitte brothers did illegal smuggling and are said to have hidden some of their treasure. Once in a while, people claim the piano will start playing when nobody is near it, and others say they get touched when nobody is around. It’s a running joke that Jean Lafitte is just a horny ghost who likes attention from women and men.

An equal opportunist, I guess.

Dawson’s eyebrows wiggle suggestively. “Plus, they’ve got Queen Voodoos.”

What exactly is his plan? Those purple drinks are strong. I can usually handle my alcohol well, but those fuckers knock me on my ass. “Not even the locals can handle them.” The drinks don’t taste like alcohol, which makes them dangerous. I’ve seen tourists get screwed up so bad, their buddies have to help them walk out of the bars before they’re even done with one. “I doubt you have to get them drunk to sleep with you if that’s your plan.”

The thought makes me feel like a jackass. I don’t know our neighbor or her friend, but I do know college girls. Usually, it doesn’t take much more than some charm and a flashy smile to get them where you want them. I’m enough of a dick to admit I’ve used the combo a time or two to get girls to warm my bed for a few hours.

Offense takes over his face. “The fuck, man? I can get laid without the help of alcohol.”

I hold up my palms. “I wasn’t saying you can’t, but they don’t know that. These chicks don’t know you at all. Maybe take it easy on them the first time you go out.”

I can tell I pissed him off, but one of us needs to be smart. His track record with partying is more infamous than his stats on the basketball team. I don’t want him going down a path he can’t come back from when he’s worked so hard to get where he is now. Especially not with Sawyer in a city she’s not familiar with.

Scratching the back of my neck, I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “Are you going to be good tonight? I know it’s been a year, but I want—”

“I’ve been good,” he cuts me off, mouth twitching to fight a scowl. “A few drinks won’t hurt me.”

How many times did he say that last time? A few drinks turned into a six-pack, which turned into a twelve-pack, which turned into him agreeing to a lot of other dumb shit that involved rolled-up dollar bills and white powder.

“Marco is gone anyway,” he mumbles, guessing what I’m thinking. “He’s not around to influence things anymore. The frat has a new pres who’s trying to clean up his mess.”

We both know that there are plenty of people still around whom Marco probably talks to. His father and uncles were all presidents of the same fraternity, making Marco a legacy. I’m sure they probably donate to events when they need funding to keep their doors open after Marco was arrested for possession and distribution last year and expelled.

Dawson got wrapped up in that mess when he was rushing the frat, doing whatever Marco wanted him to. I’ve seen him do a lot of stupid stuff in our years of friendship, but he went down a dark path the second he started using what he was supposed to be selling.

I won’t pretend like I haven’t seen the way he scratches his nose or rubs his eyes or zones out in the middle of the day like before. I learned to read the signs, to keep an eye out. That’s why I went to a few of the meetings with him after shit hit the fan and Marco was kicked out for good.

Dawson stares down at the Coke before setting it down on the counter. “Come with. That way you can keep me on my best behavior. It can be like a double date. Plus, Sawyer said you owe her a taco. We can stop on the way back and absorb some of the alcohol.”

“She told you about that?” I ask, wondering if that’s why he got all weird about if I’d met her yet. It was hard not to run into her in the hall, but I tried. Because I felt her eyes on me whenever we did cross paths—felt the way my skin buzzed from the attention I didn’t ask for whenever she was around. I couldn’t explain it and didn’t want to try because I knew Dawson wouldn’t get it.

He smacks my arm, whatever irritation he was feeling gone. “Seriously. When was the last time you went out? You rain-checked me before to hang out with your dad like a loser. Make it up to me. Sawyer’s friend is pretty cute. You might like her.”

He’s never missed an opportunity to shoot his shot. I respect him all the more for it, even though nine times out of ten it winds up in rejection.

I’ve never cared much to do the same, especially not on setups. But I don’t have anything going on tonight, so I don’t have an excuse not to go. And, oddly, I want to see what Sawyer is like outside class. Is she as fiery? Or reserved?

“Fine, but I still think we should take them to The Station,” I say. “It has live entertainment on Fridays, and it’s close by. If you don’t scare them away, then we can take them into New Orleans.”

We . I don’t want to get his hopes up or plan things too far in advance, but I also don’t want to be the buzzkill who brings everybody down.

His sigh is heavy, but I can tell he’s going to give in. “Deal. But since you changed the plans, you get to be the DD.”

My eye twitches. “How considerate,” I reply dryly.

He winks. “Considerate is my middle name.”

* * *

Sawyer and her friend Dixie are elbow in elbow as they walk ahead of us into the bar, whispering and giggling about whatever girl talk they’re having. Dawson is staring at both of their asses, his gaze locked specifically on Dixie’s because of the short leather skirt she’s wearing. I can’t blame the guy since I’m doing the same to Sawyer in the tight pair of jeans that hugs her lean legs.

Dawson nudges me. “They look good, huh?”

The girls are opposites—light and dark. Sawyer is taller than Dixie by a few inches, paler than the tan on her friend, with blond hair reaching her mid-back unlike the dark-brown curls that barely touch Dixie’s shoulders. Sawyer is louder, more abrasive. I can tell by how she carries herself that she has the type of confidence I’ve always found attractive. Dixie is quieter, shy, only talking to Sawyer the entire drive to the bar.

Apparently, Dawson got both the girls’ phone numbers through Dixie yesterday. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but only one of them has been looking at him doe-eyed, and it’s not the blond who lives across from me. Yet he was texting Sawyer all afternoon when he was supposed to be doing homework for my dad’s class. She told him that she and Dixie would be waiting for us at her apartment at eight o’clock.

When Sawyer opened the door, my brows had gone up at the outfits they were in. Hers is much more casual than her friend’s—a tight pair of denim and an equally tight top that hugs the petite body I could wrap an arm around—and Dixie is in a miniskirt and a top that shows off a sliver of toned, tanned skin underneath. They’re both cute girls, but my eyes always find their way over to those tight jeans and the girl in them.

“Yeah,” I agree, shrugging. “They do.”

He tips his chin to Dixie before elbowing my rib cage. “She seems sweet. Your type. Maybe we both can get some tonight? I’m not the only one who’s had a dry spell lately.”

I don’t know why, but my eyes go to Sawyer when he says that. Jaw ticking, I pry my eyes away from her ass and hold the door open for Dawson and me. “Maybe.”

But I have no intention of sleeping with Dixie. Or Sawyer, for that matter. Still, I can’t help but feel a weight in my stomach knowing what he’s going to try tonight, and it pisses me off that I’m even thinking about it.

What he doesn’t know is that I went home with some random chick I met at the campus store two nights ago. After a tense phone call with my father about my creative writing class, I’d been pent up and needed to relieve some tension. The girl, whose name I can’t even remember, was happily willing to provide that.

Thirty minutes later, the four of us are at a table in the back with drinks in our hands. While I’m nursing my one and only beer of the night, Dawson is already half done with his second one, and the girls have barely touched their fruity concoctions that look like punch.

While Dawson has been talking Sawyer’s ear off about how her classes have been, I notice the way her friend Dixie watches them in silence. She looks uncomfortable, and I wonder if she was as reluctant to come tonight as I was. Maybe we do have a lot in common. And she does resemble the last girl I brought home.

“What are you majoring in?” I ask over the loud music playing, having no idea what conversation to have with her.

When she realizes I’m talking to her, she peels her eyes away from the other two. They’re green. Pretty. “What?”

I lean over the table so she can hear me better, trying not to crowd her personal space too much. “I asked what you’re majoring in.”

“Oh.” She grabs her drink and nervously stirs the straw around. “Music. I haven’t narrowed down a concentration, but I’ve always loved jazz and experimental media.”

Sawyer breaks apart from the conversation she’s having with Dawson and wraps an arm around Dixie’s shoulders. “This girl can play one hell of a violin. And don’t get me started on the piano. I could barely play the recorder in third grade, so I don’t know how she does it.”

Even in the poor lighting, I can see Dixie’s face turn red from the attention. “You haven’t even seen me play.”

“I Googled you after you told me earlier,” Sawyer admits, causing my brows to go up.

“You can be Googled?” I ask, impressed.

Dixie clears her throat, using the drink as a way to stall.

Sawyer answers for her. “Yes. If you look up Dixie Milano, you can find her performance at Carnegie Hall. Carnegie frigging Hall!”

I’ve heard of it before but can’t say I know its significance. Based on her tone, I’d say it’s a big deal. So I offer Dixie a casual, “Congrats.”

Sawyer rolls her eyes. “I used to live in New York, so I guess I’m more impressed than most people would be.”

I tuck that tidbit of information about Sawyer away for another day. New York. I wonder if her face lit up the same way there as it does here. Or is that why she left?

Dixie cuts in. “It’s not a huge deal. I was young—”

“Which makes it a bigger deal,” Sawyer argues firmly.

Dawson must feel left out because he chirps in despite not having any clue what we’re talking about. “That is a huge deal.”

I snort, knowing damn well he didn’t hear what it is he’s agreeing with. My focus goes back to the tomato-faced brunette across the table from me, who’s still toying with her drink. “Well, if jazz is what you want to study, there’s no better place to be than Louisiana.”

Her smile is warm with appreciation as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “That’s what I was hoping.”

Dawson stands, tapping Sawyer’s shoulder to regain her attention when he realizes he’s lost it to Dixie and me. “I’m getting another drink. Sawyer, you want to come with me and grab some food?”

The blond looks from him to her friend and then at me. With raised brows, she asks, “Dixie, did you want to go with him? You told me you were hungry before we left.”

Dixie’s eyes go to Dawson before she sinks into her seat with a gentle head shake. “I guess it passed,” she murmurs.

I see the way Sawyer frowns, but she regains the smile when she sees Dawson still waiting for her.

Interesting.

“We’ll be right back,” she tells us, scooting her chair out and following Dawson over to the counter across the room, where people are ordering baskets of basic, greasy bar food.

When it’s just Dixie and I, I lean back. “You don’t want to be here.”

Dixie goes to say something but stops herself. Rubbing her lips together, she moves another strand of hair behind her ear and glances back down at her drink. “I wouldn’t say that exactly.”

Which means yes.

“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t want to come out either. But I gotta make sure that guy”—I gesture toward my friend, who’s laughing with Sawyer over something—“behaves himself.”

Her eyes go over to them, her teeth nibbling her bottom lip. “How long have you known Dawson?”

“A long time. Since we were preteens.”

She turns to me. “And you went to college together too? That’s pretty cool. I didn’t like anybody enough in high school to do the college thing with them.”

I shrug. I’ve always known I’d go to LSU because of my dad. If I went anywhere else, I’d be paying a hell of a lot more money than what I do here. Having a parent as a professor has its perks, even on the bad days.

“What about you and Sawyer?” I ask. “How long have you two known each other?”

Dixie takes another drink. “We actually just met. I dumped my lunch on her. She never got mad once.”

Huh. Most women would freak out if that happened to them. I’ve seen it. “Sounds like a fast friendship.”

We fall to silence as her eyes go back to the two people we came with. Except I don’t think her focus is on the blond girl like mine is but the boy beside her.

Clearing her throat, she toys with her drink straw. “He seems very…friendly,” she says of Dawson, her eyes trailing in his direction briefly and then moving away before she’s caught.

He’s playfully pushing Sawyer, who doesn’t touch him back. I note that. But does Dixie? “I know for a fact he can be a flirt. Always has been. He usually bombs it anyway. I wouldn’t put much stock into that.”

“Into what?”

I tip my chin in his direction. “Look at Sawyer. She’s putting space between them. He’s the one moving in, not her. Plus, she gave you the opportunity to take her place and go with him.”

I’m not sure if I point that out for her benefit or mine, but it makes the tension in my squared shoulders ease in the slightest way.

Dixie watches them for a moment longer before turning her body away. “I didn’t realize…” She frowns, stopping herself and shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

I offer the only advice I can. “Give him time. Dawson is a dude. We’re not the smartest when it comes to chicks being into us.”

The way she worries her lip makes me wonder what’s on her mind. “I heard some things about him last year from some of the sorority girls at Kappa Kappa Gamma. Is it… Are those things true?”

She doesn’t need to elaborate on what the rumors are if she heard them at a sorority. Greek life talks more than local gossips. I knew word got around when Marco Hastings got arrested for drug distribution, but I didn’t know where that left Dawson on the social ladder on campus. He got to stay in the frat, but he was put on probation. One wrong move, and he wouldn’t have just gotten kicked out of Greek life; he would have been expelled like his former president was.

As far as I’m concerned, he got lucky.

“Dawson is…complicated.” It’s the last word I’d use to describe my friend to his face, but it’s the perfect one for the situation. “He got tangled up in the wrong people and made some mistakes. But he’s a good person.”

She quickly shakes her head again. “I didn’t mean to imply that he wasn’t, I—”

“Dixie,” I laugh, stopping her. “My point is that he’s in a better place now than he was last year. Like I said. Give him time. He’ll come around as long as you don’t let all that shit from last year get to you.”

Hell, maybe a girlfriend is what he needs. It’ll take up his time and keep him from spending it with the wrong crowd.

I remind myself of that when I think about which girl he might want to settle down with, making my leg bounce under the table.

Thankfully, Dawson and Sawyer get back with a few different appetizers for the table a minute later, ending the conversation.

Dixie offers me a silent thank-you before falling into conversation with Sawyer about something school related.

It becomes obvious over the course of the next few hours that Dawson is oblivious to Dixie’s interest because he’s doing everything in his power to get Sawyer to laugh at what he says. I’m tempted to ask Dixie if she wants to leave when I see the way she watches her friend with a shade of green on her shoulder similar to the color of her eyes, but I think better of it when I count the number of beers Dawson had to drink.

By nearly eleven o’clock, Dixie and Sawyer are both tipsy. Only then does the brunette seem to let loose, her frown slipping into a smile as her friend convinces her to dance to the live band that came in a couple hours ago.

Dawson elbows me as we watch them circle each other around the dance floor. “You feeling Dixie?”

She’s a nice girl. Pretty. Easy to talk to. I have no reason not to be into her, but I’ve never liked being pushed in one direction. Plus, she’s here for him, whether he realizes it or not. And I have no idea where Sawyer is at because half the time, she’s entertaining the conversations that Dawson starts with her, and the other half, she’s trying her hardest to nudge Dixie to take her place.

“She’s cool,” I tell him.

“Cool,” he repeats in amusement. “This bar is cool. The music is cool. You either need better glasses or more alcohol.”

“If you’re feeling her, then you do something about it,” I return, pushing my frames up my nose. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings, considering my indifference to her. “She’s your type, isn’t she?”

Dawson laughs. “Every woman is my type. But my sights are locked and loaded. And do you see Sawyer? She’s all over me. My game is strong tonight.”

I wouldn’t say she’s “all over him,” but I don’t burst his bubble. Most girls wouldn’t stick around this long if there wasn’t any interest, so I don’t know her motivation. Is it for her or Dixie? Or is it something else?

“You going to do something about it?” I ask curiously, watching the girls hug and laugh.

Dawson leans against me, draping a heavy arm over my shoulder. His breath reeks of beer when he says, “You know damn well I am.”

“Dawson…”

He stumbles toward them before I can say anything, dropping an arm around both girls’ shoulders. Whether they let him stay that way because they’re drunk and having fun or because they’re appeasing him, I’m not sure.

Only one of the three looks back though, searching the room until her eyes land on me.

I lift my glass of water to Sawyer, and she smiles. And I’d be lying if I said that smile didn’t do something to my chest that I don’t like.

But do I look away?

No.

We spend the rest of the night watching each other instead of the two friends we brought along.

The tingling in my neck returns.

It’s getting harder to ignore.