7. CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVEN
C ARLY
“... and the entire place looked like a slaughterhouse.”
I stiffen as the tendrils of the conversation reach me. It seems almost uncanny that I was able to pick it out amidst the din.
It’s just after five and the bar is packed with both tourists and locals. It’s pretty noisy, even without the country song currently blasting on the speakers. The sound and the greasy scent of burgers and beer are almost oppressive, adding a much-needed heat to the cool atmosphere.
I shouldn’t have even heard a word of that conversation. But it’s always easier to hear bad news and for some reason, I’ve always been able to sense when people are talking about me or my family. It’s like a cruel sixth sense and I hate it because I would much rather be oblivious to the gossip. But I can’t help but listen.
I can’t physically escape it either as I wait for the elderly man at the opposite table to find his credit card. The words from the table behind me drift to me and it soon proves that they’re talking about exactly what I feared they might be.
“That’s insane. A shoot-out, from a smuggling ring? Who knew that sort of thing could happen in a town like this??”
“No place is safe,” the first voice says. “We’re not as bad as the city, thank God, but we got our own share of riffraff. Like that Nate Huntley fella. Turns out he was involved with the smugglers but even before that I knew that boy was no good from the start. Always stealing from us hardworking folk. And now look. He’s probably going to rot in prison where he belongs. They’re probably going to charge him with all the deaths from the shoot-out.
“They’ll charge Rick too,” his companion adds. “I didn’t see that one coming. He seemed like such a good man, always willing to help me out with cash here and there. Come to find out that he got the cash from smuggling and, thanks to him, a whole bunch of people are dead.”
Bile rises in my throat as another one says, “I thought it was only three of them that died.”
“The whole lot of them should have died. Everyone involved was a criminal. Who goes around kidnapping little girls? God only knows what they would have done to the poor young thing if her father hadn’t gotten there in time. That Declan Tudor has more balls than I thought. He ran in there and saved his daughter and fought off like a dozen of them. Didn’t give a damn that they had guns or anything.”
“You alright, hon?” The white-haired woman in front of me regards me carefully while her husband slowly pulls out a bunch of gift cards from his wallet one-by-one, shaking his head with each one. The older gentleman mutters to himself as he searches, trying to remember if he even brought the right card. He’s already searched through his other wallet and his pockets while I’ve had to suffer the conversation behind me.
I stiffen at the woman’s question and realize that my smile has gotten a little tight at the edges. I try to ease it up, but I’m not sure I succeed. “Yeah, I’m fine, ma’am. Thanks for asking.”
“I got it!” her husband suddenly announces, pulling a credit card free and holding it in the air. “I got it, Meryl.”
“Thank the Lord.” The woman rolls her eyes, but she still smiles affectionately at him as he inserts the card. Then once he’s done, she takes the card reader and hands it over to me. “That should do it.”
“Thanks.” The card reader prints out the receipt and I give it to them, along with their card. Then I head back for the counter but not before I hear, “That entire Huntley family are losers. All of them. We’d be better off running them out of town before they inevitably cause another mess.”
Stomach tight, I thankfully reach the counter without further incident. Still, as I go around it, I have to stop and take a few seconds to catch my breath.
Unfortunately, it’s right at that time that Emma’s grandpa walks out of the kitchen, adjusting his Chinaman’s hat on his head.
He takes one look at my face and frowns. “You alright, Lady Fishy?”
Despite feeling like shit, I smile at Grandpa’s nickname. He’s called me that ever since I was little and told him that I felt sorry for the fishies he was always catching. He teased me and asked if I wanted to be the queen of the fishies, but I said no. I only wanted to be a lady fishy. Thus, the nickname was born.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell him.
But despite living with his head in the clouds, Grandpa can provide an annoying perspective sometimes.
“Ah. You heard someone talking trash about your family again, didn’t you?”
I shake my head, but he says, “Don’t bother lying to me, Carly. I’ve known you since you were practically at my ankles. You got that look on your face like you’re embarrassed, but you shouldn’t be. If someone’s talking about your family, shake it off, because you’re nothing like them. You can’t pick the stock you came from, so no need to take on their failures as your own.”
“I know that,” I tell him. But knowing it and accepting it are two different things. Because I know when other people look at me sometimes, they don’t see me as Carly, distinct from my family. Despite a lifetime of clean-cut behavior and hiding my occasional hookups, they look at me like they’re just waiting for me to mess up in some way, to maybe hold up a grocery store at gunpoint or pop out a drug dealer’s baby or something equally heinous.
“Well, then remember it,” Grandpa says and he pats my shoulder. “The same way I’m not gonna beat myself up about what Rick has done, you shouldn’t feel responsible about your parents.” Pain flashes across Grandpa’s face whenever he mentions Rick. The two used to be best friends, as thick as thieves. And now Rick is sitting in jail, refusing visits from everyone, including Grandpa, Emma, and Lou, the owner of the restaurant across the street who Rick had a budding relationship with before he got locked away.
All three are pretty broken up about what happened, but they try to hide it for the most part. For me and Yule though, Rick was more so a friendly employer and so, while we’re still sad, we’re dealing with it better.
“Alright, I’m going fishing,” Grandpa says, shaking off his sudden melancholy. “Y’all got it good here, right?”
“Yup,” I say. Emma has hired three more servers and they’re all on shift this evening. Plus, Yule has a few assistants now helping him cook the meals.
All these changes happened within the span of a couple of months.
This time last year, we were struggling to get enough customers, but with the reopening of the Pink Hotel and headlines of the recent happenings, Laketown has been flooded with visitors. As one of the only good restaurants in town, the Tiki Bar is now constantly packed. It’s overwhelming sometimes, but ever since the new employees got trained, we coordinate seamlessly now.
Therefore, Grandpa doesn’t need to be here. “You can take off.”
“Alright. See you, Lady Fishy.” He whistles as he cuts his way through the crowd, pretty agile for a man who’s nearly eighty. He even had a heart attack early last year, but it doesn’t seem to have slowed him down even a little bit. He’s as agile and active as ever, taking frequent walks in the park and going fishing nearly every evening.
After he’s gone, I continue work for the next few hours, trying not to think about the conversation I just heard and trying not to feel like everyone is staring at me. It’s probably in my head, I know. It’s probably just me being self-conscious. But the discomfort still clings to me all night.
I also try not to think about the college problem, for which I have no solution for now. I’ll probably need to get a second job, maybe an accounting internship. But, although I’ve applied for a few, none have gotten back to me.
Because you apparently need experience to get experience.
Later that night, as the crowd thins out, I end up manning the drink bar. Emma taught me how to pour a few of our most popular drinks and usually no one orders anything super complicated, which frustrates Emma because she wants to be able to show off the fancy skills that she learned at bartending school. But it’s great for nights like tonight when Emma’s not around, because it means I pretty much have it handled.
I’m wiping down glasses when a familiar cologne drifts to me followed by a deep voice. “Hello, Athena.”
My face shoots up, and a smile spreads to my lips. “You’re back.” Did he just call me Athena?
“Yup.” Micah Landing is standing opposite my bar, looking as delicious as always. His hair is damp, his curls shiny. He’s dressed today in slacks, a casual polo shirt, and a watch that probably costs more than my parent’s entire house. “Flew back this evening to discuss some things with Declan.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “Things with the hotel?”
He nods but doesn’t elaborate, as his gaze instead traces down my body. “How is it possible that you look even prettier than when I last saw you?”
Anticipation races through my veins at the look in his eyes. “I doubt it. When you last saw me, I was in a five-thousand-dollar dress and just got my makeup done by someone called the Face Reformer.” Strange name, I thought, but Rachel assured me that the woman did make up for a bunch of top celebrities. “So I doubt I can beat that, with a black T-shirt and cargo shorts.”
Micah smirks and plants his elbows on the counter, leaning forward to whisper. “Actually, when I last saw you, your makeup was long gone and that dress was on the hotel room floor so I don’t think either of those things even mattered.”
I swallow. My heart is racing and desire is flaying me again making my skin hypersensitive. “Oh?”
“Really,” he says. “I can’t wait to do it again.”
“Who says I’m going to let you?” The challenge slips out breathlessly. “Besides I thought it was a one-night thing.”
“One night, two nights, I’ve never been good at math.” He waves a hand. “So what say you we go out tomorrow night? There’s a restaurant out in Bayview that’s halfway decent. How about I take you out to eat?”
“So you can get in my pants after?”
“No. I can get in your pants anyway. I’m just trying to see you fed.”
I laugh and shake my head. I should probably tell him that we don’t need to date to mess around. I know what we’re doing is strictly casual and I don’t need the illusion that he wants something serious with me.
But a meal at a fancy restaurant would be nice.
“Sure,” I say. “Although I have to be back home at nine to help my neighbor babysit, so if you do want to have your way with me at some point during the night, we’ll have to factor that in.”
“Got it.” He winks and his eyes drop down to my lips “Can’t wait.”
Me either.
“Carly.”
I jerk and spin around to find Yule staring at me through the serving hatch.
He’s giving me a look, and I blush because I don’t know how long he’s been standing there. Heck, I don’t even know how long I’ve been here. My conversation with Micah seems to have drowned out my environment and I see what V–the woman from the party who hooked up with Micah in the past–meant now. He really can make any woman feel like she’s the most important person in the entire world. What a dangerous ability.
“Table nine’s been trying to get your attention,” Yule says. “I think they want another martini.”
“Oh, sure thing,” I call, blushing a little as Yule shoots Micah a curious look. Micah salutes him and Yule merely nods as he retreats into his kitchen abode.
“Why did I get the sense he doesn’t like me?” Micah asks.
“He’s probably annoyed because you’re distracting me.”
“Ah. That’s discrimination then. It’s not my fault I’m so distractingly appealing.”
I snort and roll my eyes and he leans back.
“I’ll let you get back to work and stop being such a distraction. Here, let me get your number before I leave.”
“Uh…sure.” I rattle it off quickly and then go to attend table nine. It’s a group of young, college-age girls who are probably tourists, in town to observe the opening of the hotel.
“That guy you were talking to was so gorgeous,” one of them hisses at me as I take their next drink order. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“Uh, no,” I say, glancing back to the counter. Micah’s on his way out and throws me another wink as he leaves. It makes at least one of them sigh.
“He’s just a friend.”
I gape at the statuesque building in front of me, the name of which is embossed in gold letters.
“Juvia?” I turn to Micah in shock. “That’s the ‘halfway decent’ restaurant you were talking about? You got reservations to Juvia?”
Micah shrugs. “What, like it’s hard?”
“Uh, yeah. The place is very trendy on social media and they typically have a waitlist that’s months out. You’ve only been in town a single night; how did you get a reservation?”
“I’m Micah Landing,” he says as though that explains everything. He settles his hand on my back and leads me to the front door, where a hostess takes his name and then leads us indoors.
Unlike the Tiki Bar, which has that rustic vibe, and smells like hamburgers and fried fish, this place is the epitome of sophistication. Dim lighting, velvet booths, and plants growing through the sleek wooden floors. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It also has the perfect temperature and a subtle scent I can’t put my finger on.
The hostess leads us to a booth on a dais that faces a stage, where a man plays classical music on a piano.
That’s when I discover that not only did Micah get a reservation, he got a VIP reservation. Last minute.
I stare at him incredulously as he pulls out my seat. He must be a bigger deal than I thought.
“Thank you.” As I sit, I take a measured look around the room and suddenly feel weird about my dress. It’s the dress that I almost wore to the party, the polyester one that nearly drove Rachel catatonic. And now I see why she didn’t want me to wear it.
I feel out of place.
Micah wraps his hand on mine, drawing my attention back to him.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I just wish I knew where we were going sooner. I would have made an effort to look more presentable.” Not that I could afford to get anything nicer than this dress.
“You look great,” he says. “More than great actually.” His eyes run down my form again and he bites his lip, making desire coil inside me. He’s been throwing me looks like that since he picked me up at Mrs. Peach’s house, and it’s slowly driving me nuts with lust.
Something is definitely happening tonight.
In the next five minutes, a bottle of wine comes around, and a waiter silently pours two glasses. He places the menu down and then leaves, as I murmur a thank you.
Then I reach for the glass, needing something to help me relax.
“Oh, there’s something I wanted to ask you tonight,” Micah says, picking up a menu.
“What is it?” I tip the glass into my mouth, the cool, smooth liquid a balm for my parched tongue.
“What do you think about marrying me?”