Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The rain carves little rivers down the glass of the passenger side window as Eli stops my car outside the Huxley’s employee entrance. He needs to borrow it to transport his DJ equipment to the other side of town.
Eli shifts the car into park. “Don’t dawdle after your shift. Luke is doing me a big favor, bringing you to my show.” An underground house party.
I have about as much interest in spending a car ride with Eli’s friend Luke as I do in attending Eli’s gig—somewhere between zero and none.
Not that there’s anything wrong with spending time alone with Luke.
It’s just kind of awkward. When he started hanging around more a few weeks ago, I learned that his quiet nature combined with my tendency to fill in the gaps in conversation lead me to talk way too much.
And, of course, every other word out of my mouth is a practiced lie.
So we make an odd pair. Him sitting quietly and me blathering on, telling a fictionalized story of my childhood.
“Great,” I murmur and reach for the door handle. Before I can pull it, Eli grabs my elbow and leans in for a kiss.
“Come kiss me good luck, babe.”
I barely conceal my eye roll, giving him a quick peck before grabbing my bag.
“See ya later, babe!” he shouts as I step into the rain.
I give a truncated wave and hurry inside.
It’s not that I don’t like Eli, he’s just a little too clingy for someone I’m leaving in a few days.
It’s my fault, I fear. When we started hooking up, I tried to make it clear that I don’t do serious, had no intention of being his girlfriend, and would still be seeing other people.
But then I moved in with him, which was sort of an accident and totally out of convenience—a desperate attempt to save money for my next disappearing act.
In hindsight, I can see how that’s sending mixed signals.
I’ve been preparing for just over a week to leave, since Zaddy Warbucks left me a $300 tip on one drink.
Last weekend’s shifts weren’t as lucrative as I’d hoped, but a rule’s a rule and today I hit my eight-month mark in Portland.
So two days from now, I’m going to cut my losses: Eli and, unfortunately, my hair.
I’ll grab my coffee canister of cash, my two always packed duffle bags, and hit the road. I’m thinking Phoenix or Austin. Some place with a lot of sun. It’s the first week of September. Soon, half of the country is going to be covered in snow and ice, and I want to try my hand at the snowbird life.
Dmitri and I bopped around Florida for a year and a half.
We rented this cute rundown studio in Tampa and then an overpriced trailer in Clearwater.
That was one of my favorite lives we lived.
He’d go to whatever construction site he was working at, and I’d speed through cyber school before hopping on a bus to the beach.
I’d spend the afternoon reading in the sun and collecting shells.
After work he’d, without fail, meet me at our spot with a sandwich in hand, and we’d play in the waves until sunset.
At the memory of Dmitri, that same persistent pain in my chest that never quite goes away reappears, lifting its head up and stretching out its limbs like it’d awoken from a power nap.
That’s grief—a restless animal that sleeps and hibernates, but never quite dies.
Just lies in wait to pop up at the most inopportune times, like when you’re shopping in the frozen section of Walmart or clocking in at work in the room behind the concierge desk.
I close my eyes, trying to shake off the heavy feeling of perpetual grief.
“Sunny!” Carley squeals, racing into the back room.
“Hey! What’s up?” I laugh at her excitement. She’s as great a work friend as they come, always ready to gossip and with no desire to hang out outside of work. The perfect friend to fill my need for socialization without getting too close.
She grabs my arm, yanking me out to the concierge desk and whispering, “I kid you not, the hottest–fucking-man I’ve ever seen was asking about you earlier. I told him you were working later and to come back after seven. He is sitting at the bar right now.”
I can’t see any hot men in the lounge from this vantage point, just some couples and a few middle-aged finance bros with too much Botox.
“Okay, when you walk into the lounge, he’s sitting in the corner. Seriously, Sunny, you have to give me the details on how you met later!” she presses.
I’d like to know the same thing; the only extremely attractive man I’ve seen recently was Mr. Macallan 25. Could he be back, traveling for more pretend government work? “Okay, okay.” I gently pry Carley’s perfectly manicured nails from my wrist. “What’s he drinking?”
“Deschutes IPA on tap,” she says, standing on her tippy-toes, trying to get a look at him, even though there’s no way to see the corner of the bar from the lobby.
Beer—that’s not Mr. Silk Tie’s drink. Maybe I’m forgetting another overly attractive man, though I doubt it.
“Alright. Catch me on my break?” I smooth out my dress.
Lobby staff are required to wear black suits or dresses, and as a rule, I find showing a little thigh always leads to better tips.
So I’m sporting a little black dress, purchased specifically for this job.
I saunter over to the lounge, pulling my imaginary confidence up through the marble floor as if from the ether with every step, transforming myself from an uneducated, familyless, live-in girlfriend of a DJ, into a mysterious worldly enchantress.
I can only see profiles and the backs of heads, and none of the men near the left corner look like Mr. East Coast. In fact, there’s no one I recognize in the lounge at all. I lift the bridge and jump right into action serving guests.
The lounge is busy, even for a Saturday. Luckily, Franky’s the other bartender on shift, and he’s seasoned and fast—which is a real relief with this crowd that’s going to need all hands on deck.
I’ve been busting my ass for over three hours and am currently mixing a batch of spicy margaritas for a group of women at the corner sofa.
The crowd has thinned out just slightly, and as I glance over at the women, a pair of blazing hazel eyes bore into my soul from the lounge chair next to the sofa.
This man could certainly be the hottest fucking man Carley’s ever seen.
He’s not our usual clientele. His thick hair falls over his massive shoulders in dark waves, like shadows spilling from his copper skin in the low lighting. His lips full and his aura rebellious.
I catch Carley’s eye from across the lobby as she helps a couple into an elevator.
We do a little silent eye exchange where I ask “Is that him?” and she looks in his direction and responds by mouthing “Yes, OMG!” with a widening of her eyes.
He’s lounging in his chair, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, nursing his almost empty pint.
His eyes caress my body, a playful smirk on his lush lips.
Now why is he asking after me? I’m confident I’ve never seen him before.
I’d absolutely remember it. As much as I wish it were otherwise, hot guys do not just start innocently asking questions about me…
This is not good. I can practically hear Dmitri scolding me.
“This is why you must follow The Rules to the letter, Solnishko.”
Well shit. I guess I’m relatively safe with this many people around.
I need to come up with an exit strategy for after my shift.
As loath as I am to think it, maybe it’s a good thing that Eli needed my car.
I can make some excuse for Luke to come inside.
Though, this guy is twice Luke’s size. I have to assume that if enough people are around, he won’t try anything.
I swallow the lump in my throat, and I start on the next order.
I’ve just finished setting down a Negroni on the bridge when I turn and find that I’m eye level with a substantially solid chest. I tilt my neck, looking up into hazel eyes beneath a pronounced brow. Fuck. Be cool, act normal, keep your construction vehicle of a mouth shut.
I suck in a breath and smile, possibly a little too brightly. “What can I get you?”
“You’re Sunny,” he says, not asking. Damnit, well, maybe the path of least resistance is the smartest choice here?
“Yep, since I was born.” Lie. “Do we know each other?” We definitely do not.
“No, but you served my buddy a while back. When I told him I was traveling here, he was adamant that I come to your bar, saying you make the best craft cocktails he’s ever had.
Fair warning, I’m pretty solidly a beer drinker.
” Oh, so as it turns out, maybe I’m a bit paranoid.
This is normal…ish. I do make the best cocktails.
“Maybe you could recommend something for someone who doesn’t really like cocktails? ”
“Hmm, as a beer drinker I’m guessing you like bitter over sweet?” I ask. He nods. “And maybe something refreshing, over ice. You don’t strike me as being comfortable holding a coupe glass.” I give him a conspicuously suspicious once-over.
“Why not?” His brow pinches together as he continues almost haughtily, “I’m not one of those guys who thinks the glass I drink from has any impact on my masculinity.”
I get the distinct feeling that nothing he could do would have a negative effect on his self-conception of masculinity. This man is fun. And by the way his eyes are filled with the spark of amusement, I think he knows it.
“Oh, of course not.” I lower my voice so he has to lean further over the bar to hear me. “I just meant that our coupes are quite small, and your hands are…well, not.” I glance down to where his hands are folded on the bar top. “I imagine it wouldn’t be the easiest glass to hold.”
He smirks, rising to the occasion of my flirting. “I don’t mind small things in my hands.”