52. Ambrose—present day
Ambrose—present day
T he bar has an icy chill this evening, and it has nothing to do with Valaria’s frosty attitude toward me.
It turned out that she was still mad, and my cocky smiles haven’t thawed her at all.
Hopefully, the heater in her office will do the trick because she’s been locked in there since giving me an earful this morning as we carried boxes inside together.
I wipe down the bar, moving swiftly under the purple glow that overhangs before responding to the snapping fingers of the only customers too lazy to get up and come to the bar.
Leaving the bar unmanned, I head their way, keeping an eye on it. Thoughts of Dollie plague me the entire way.
She’s been on my mind all day. Is she okay? Is she with him? What is that secret lump?
I approach the round table and the couple on high barstools.
Pulling his eyes from some blonde, Lincoln greets me with a grin, and I match him with a false smile that my scars accentuate.
“I told you it was him, your old neighbor.” His voice is louder than the pumping music blaring some song I dislike. He takes his half-drank bottle of beer to his lips and nods my way.
His date, Dahlia Dixon, is all grown up and looks just like the adult version of her younger self.
Spoiled and unimpressed with her company—that’s exactly how I remember her.
She has a few laugh lines now, and I’d say they’re from all the times the discomfort of another person brought her joy, but I really hope she’s grown out of that behavior.
She shifts in her seat uncomfortably as her eyes roam over me, moving more slowly over the scars on my throat. Her face remains blank, no smile or snide giggles that’ll add more lines.
Maybe I shouldn’t have judged her so harshly.
“Did you hear the screams that night?”
No, I should have. Because why would anyone want to date Lincoln?
“What—no. I didn’t hear anything.” Her wide eyes fly to her date, her head and body shaking.
Dahlia quickly downs her white wine martini, which, I’d guess, is an attempt to calm her nerves.
It doesn’t work.
When her eyes meet mine again, her head still shaking, I ask in my silent way if she or the fucking clown she’s on a date with wants another drink.
“We only understand actual words. No one can know for sure what you’re saying with all those scars across your face. They cut into your lips.”
“Ignore him, please.” Dahlia is a nicer adult than she was a child. Apologizing for her date’s shitty behavior. “I think he’s had one too many.”
“It’s my first, Dahl’.”
“I agreed to a quiet drink, Lincoln. I didn’t want drama with the?—”
“Local freak?”
Fuck my life.
I let my eyes roll closed, and all I see is Dollie at home, probably with Shane.
The clock on the wall taunts me. I still have six hours to go.
Roll on midnight.
I ask again if Lincoln wants a drink, and his response is to level-check his bottle and intentionally spill it over the edge of the table.
Jumping back, I avoid as much of the spill as possible, not wanting anything his lips have touched near me.
“Oh, I guess I should get another, and I guess you should get down on the floor and wipe that.” He finishes with a cocky smile.
I hate that I have to obey his requests like a little lap dog.
Taking care of the spill first, because if someone slips in it, falls, and makes a claim here, that’ll be the final straw. Valaria would fire me, and in turn, I’d breach the terms of my probation.
I keep a look of professionalism in place as I return to the table and set down a drink for Lincoln and Dahlia. She never asked for another, but I’d figured she’d need it to see her date through.
Lincoln, because he’s such a delight, knocks over his full bottle, but my quick reaction prevents me from pulling out the mop again.
I say nothing, my lips still, but the warning glare is enough. He backs off, returning to chit-chat with Dahlia, and I return to the bar.
My phone, tucked under the bar, flashes with new messages. I fight the urge to pick it up and put it down repeatedly because a wave of excitement flits through me.
It has to be Dollie.
Sliding my finger across the screen, I unlock the phone and see a message from her.
A pain stabs me in the chest.
Can I really keep talking to her as someone else? Can I ignore my feelings and play the loyal friend?
I have to.
Dollancie:
I’m sorry it’s taken me all day to reply. I have a lot of things I’ve been thinking about today.
God, me, too. And they’re all about her.
Those thoughts enter my head again, that twisted voice with cruel promises. I focus on the little dots appearing on the screen to block them out, but it doesn’t work.
Tell Dollie you love her, or —the buzz of a new text message sends the voice away.
Dollancie:
But I’d love another baking gig! Please, tell your boss yes! And thank you again for last night.
Lucky:
I’m here whenever you need to talk.
Dollancie:
I know.
Lucky:
You okay?
Dollancie:
I’m tired, I guess. Like, I’ve ached so bad today.
I’ll probably get a cold from being out in the rain.
And tomorrow, I’ll ache even more. I spent the whole afternoon clearing some stuff in the house.
I managed to empty a room, though.
The scars on my forehead pull as my eyebrows dip with confusion.
What could she have emptied? The reading room, kitchen, and dining room are all fine. The furniture is either newly replaced or timeless and unaffected by vandalism.
I don’t ask because it would cause suspicion, but I can’t shake the curiosity that rattles around loudly in my head over the noise in this bar.
I don’t even hear the female voice behind me until she leans over and pats my back.
Jumping away from her touch and twisting at the same time, I not only land awkwardly on my leg, but I pull something in my back that I know will cause me pain all night.
Turning, I see Annabelle on the other side of the bar, her twinkling nails match the light above.
“Have you spoken to your sister today?”
There’s that word… sister.
I shrug and mouth the word, earlier .
“Do you know she’s cleaning her room? Like, her bedroom?” Annabelle sighs, and somehow, I hear it over the sound of the music—another song I dislike.
A lady in blue steps up and places a lip-stick-stained glass on the bar, and I reach for it, not forgetting I have a job to do, but forgetting something else. That I’m wearing a T-shirt that’s ripped to shreds… and it has short sleeves.
Annabelle’s eyes become brown globes, widening to scary proportions.
“Oh, fuck.” The curse falls out of her mouth. “You?” she says it before I realize what it means, then says it again with all the surprise in the world. “You!”
The bright orange of her tacky-looking purse comes into view. It matches the flowers on her dress and the lipstick on her lips. I stare at her mouth, waiting for more words to come, because her expression tells me she has plenty more to say.
She slaps a twenty on the bar and blurts out, “I need a drink. Something strong, but not too strong. My little lemon needs to get me home in one piece. Someone is gonna have to be there to pick up your sister’s broken heart because talk about a step too far!”
Pushing her money back to her, I duck to a cooler and pull out a mild alcopop. It’s orange, like her bag, like the lipstick she’ll leave on the rim.
She eyes it like I’ve given her acid to drink. The scowl on her face shows how impressed she is as she reluctantly accepts the drink.
A weak one, in case you need to be there to pick up my sister’s broken heart, I mouth.
“It isn’t fucking funny,” she stammers.
I slink away from her and pull out my phone.
Ignoring her for a minute as she takes her first sip and voices her distaste for it, I reply to Dollie.
Lucky:
No wonder you’re aching.
You deserve a night with your Barbie movie and buttered popcorn.
After sending, I drop a message to Annabelle. The bold text sits on a plain black square as it lands on her screen.
“I can explain, but I’m not in the mood right now,” she reads the message that appears on her device. “Well, you’d better.”
Another buzz takes her eyes down to her phone again.
“It wasn’t malicious. You can’t tell her.
” Her eyes turn into globes again, all her fury spinning in them.
“No, you will tell her, and you can do it tonight! You know…” she trails off, swigs, then starts talking again.
“I thought it was so sweet how you were caring for her last night, brushing her hair after she was hurt.”
I can’t explain all that . I continue to communicate through a series of dropped messages.
“Oh, well, isn’t that unlucky !”
Look, I just wanted her to talk to me. I didn’t know what to do. I was missing her, and then you set up that app.
“How did you even know about the fucking app?”
Can I use your number? These little graphics are starting to piss me off.
“Well, your bullshit is pissing me off. But give me your phone.”
Taking a quick glance at her hand, examining every finger, every crease of her hand, I scan her for germs. I hesitate, my phone locked in my hand between us.
My lips move, stringing together a sentence explaining why I can’t hand it over to her.
I need to know your hands are clean.
“Do you want me to sanitize first?” She doesn’t ridicule me or even so much as sigh as she sets down her half-drunk bottle. The orange liquid is now somewhere behind the label. I keep my eyes there as she pulls a sanitizer from her purse and drops a blob of the gel into her hand.
When she extends her hand again, I give her my phone.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re literally texting her right now.” Annabelle flashes me the message on my screen.
Dollancie:
Did you guess I liked the buttered kind because of the color?
My attempt to claim the device back and answer the message fails when Annabelle steps back and pulls it from my reach, inputting her number.