Chapter 3
Penelope
While I wait for Mrs. Padilla to relieve me from watching her toddler twins, I read a text from my sister.
Pulling up to your apartment now! Can’t wait to party like it’s 2010 and Britney Spears and Paris Hilton are our bffs.
She follows that up with a slew of champagne and sparkle emojis, and then, because she can’t help herself, she asks,
How did the date go yesterday?
Total bust
Oh, God. What did you do? He was sexy, successful, and stable!
Carrie recites her ‘three S’ standard, but I want to know why she thinks I’m the problem.
Then again, I did snort-laugh, chew my nails, and ramble, so…
I don’t know. He had eyes for someone else, so I hooked them up before I left.
Bubbles flash and then disappear twice before she finally messages back.
Tell me you didn’t???
“Oh, Penelope. We appreciate you so much,” Mrs. Padilla says, keys jangling as she rushes through the door. She hands me two Topican paper bills. “Sorry, I’m short again.”
“No problem at all. I totally understand.” I smile at the woman, even though she’s always short the amount she owes me.
She’s also notoriously two hours late every time I babysit her rambunctious kids, but I don’t make a big fuss about it. She’s got a lot going on between changing jobs and finding her husband in bed with another woman from his office. If my rent’s late by a week, I’ll just bat my eyes at my landlord with the promise to pay extra when I get the chance.
Logan did make an offer…
Sure, I could work for him. But if his father found out after all but telling me to stay away, then what? Never mind that Logan ripped my heart out, burned it, and then danced on the ashes.
Silas Anderson was someone my father considered family. We fed him at our table, housed his family in their time of need, and gave him access to the sacred lands of Augustine—and he repaid us by disappearing without a trace the second things got rocky.
But since leaving Logan’s office yesterday, Dorthea and Ricardo have been heavy on my mind. Ricardo says he doesn’t need my help, but that’s because he’s too proud to admit the home is in terrible shape.
After our last inspection, the city threatened to close the doors if they had one more violation. And that was before the new ordinance that’s raising fees for business owners all along Seaside Avenue.
“You’re truly a blessing, Pen!” She wraps her arms around my neck and gives me a suffocating squeeze.
I wave goodbye, picking chunks of glitter out of my hair as I make my way toward the bus station a block away from the enormous Keerah Financial building.
Now there’s a place my overbearing father would approve of. A nice nine-to-five job with benefits, paid time off, and a retirement fund I’ll never see because I’ll be working until I’m at least ninety-seven.
Two words, dummy. Summit. Estates.
“No,” I chastise myself, but the job opportunity is there, breathing down my neck–the same way the possibility of losing the group home does each time we watch a foreclosure sign go up in a neighboring window.
If I accomplish nothing else in my life, I want to at least make sure my friends are taken care of. That those kids wake up every day, loved, fed, and cherished—whether that’s with us, or in their forever home.
My phone buzzes with a sudden S.O.S text from my sister.
Get to your apartment. RIGHT NOW.
“Shit.” I don’t even bother with a response. Instead, my dirty Vans slap the pavement as I jog to the intersection to hail a taxi. It’ll cost me, but I can’t lose the precious time it would take to ride the bus.
Within twenty minutes, I’m racing toward the steps of my second-story apartment, where Carrie and my landlord are in the middle of a heated shouting match.
Her tone is all business, echoing through the stairwell. “You will reimburse her this month’s rent and find a vacant apartment for her to stay, or I promise, you’ll be hearing from her lawyer.”
My landlord, Mr. Erickson, doesn’t understand the danger of Carrie in momma-bear mode. I cringe, taking the steps two at a time.
When I hit the top of the stairs, I grasp the railing, holding out a hand to stop them. “Wait! Don’t listen to her. She’s having another one of her episodes.”
“I am not.” She blanches, more wound up now that I’ve insinuated she’s off her rocker. “Is that the thanks I get for helping put this crook in his place?”
Oh, fuck me. She’s going to make me homeless.
“Miss Vance,” Mr. Erickson greets me grimly as two men carry my couch out of my apartment with trails of water dripping from its bottom.
“What the hell happened?”
“Your apartment is being evacuated, and your ‘landlord,’” she says with air quotes, “is refusing to move you to another one.”
Mr. Erickson’s hollowed face is red with anger when he turns to me. “The building’s been deemed uninhabitable after several pipes burst, and unfortunately, your space has taken the brunt of the damage.” He casts a wary glance at my sister. “As I was saying, there’s nothing else I can do. We have to wait for the repairs to be made, but in order to do that, you’ll have to leave.”
Carrie’s twenty-six, but looks every bit the established young socialite with her light brown hair slicked back in a bun, a pair of fitted slacks, and a ruffled chiffon blouse. Her arms are crossed, hip jutted out, and her eyeliner is sharp enough to kill.
When her piercing gaze finds mine, questions I had hoped I wouldn’t have to answer flicker in her eyes.
I can hear them clearly, as if she’s asking them aloud, wondering why I’m living in the rundown part of Keerah when I should be in a fancy high-rise on the nicer side of town.
“And where do you suggest we stay?” she asks Mr. Erickson.
“Look. I’m sorry about this,” I say, trying to smooth things over between them. “Surely there’s something we can do?”
I go for the kill, batting my eyes like I’ve never batted them before, but the stubborn man doesn’t give.
“Miss Vance, I understand this is upsetting, but it could be months before repairs can be made, and this is out of my control. There are no other apartments available for me to move you to.”
He inclines his head, leaving me and Carrie to trudge through inches of water pouring over the bottom of the doorway.
Everything is drenched. My furniture is ruined, my clothing is soaked, even the buffet table my mom refurbished and passed down to me is bubbling from water damage.
“No, no, no. This cannot be happening.” I stifle a sob when they carry it past me. “What are you doing with my things?”
Carrie’s lips form a grim line. “I’m having anything salvageable taken to a storage facility.”
“No. I can take care of this… I-I can—”
What, call my dad to rescue me and expose all the lies I’ve been telling him?
I don’t think so. Which leaves me the option of humbly thanking my sister for saving my ass, even if it means getting an earful later.
“When you said you got this place for a bargain, I didn’t think that meant you’d be slumming it.”
Dirty, gray water sloshes around my ankles as I step inside to assess the extent of the damage. “Living somewhere affordable doesn’t mean I’m slumming. It means I’m practical.”
Yeah, that’s what we’ll call it.
“Just tell me you at least have renter’s insurance,” she mutters before collecting a floating notebook with a half-drawn sketch of Mount Serenity off the floor.
She’s more perplexed when she finds mounds of yarn, parts of half assembled wooden figures, and wads of fabrics scattered around my kitchen table. Projects I’ve started only to abandon halfway through.
“Uh, it expired.” I can’t help but wince when I add, “Two years ago.”
Blue eyes, so similar to our parents’, widen. “Dammit, Penelope.”
Her disappointment churns a sick, tar-like substance in my stomach. Mostly because she’s smart as hell, and I know she’s decoding every single lie I’ve been spouting to her and our parents about my ‘amazing, successful life’ here in Keerah.
I don’t mind my grungy apartment or bouncing from job to job, and I don’t mind living with the bare minimum. But she wouldn’t understand why I do the things I do, so I keep silent, like always.
“I’m sorry, all right? I know this isn’t exactly the reunion we wanted.” I swirl my foot through the murky water, forcing myself to give her an out, even though I selfishly want her to stay. “I understand if you want to stay with Mom and Dad earlier than you planned.”
She sighs, but just when I expect her to tear into me, she slips her hand into mine. “I’m not leaving you like this.”
A mess. A failure. An embarrassment to my father’s hard-earned name.
“We’re going to figure this all out. Everything’s going to be okay,” she says.
All I can do is squeeze her hand, suddenly feeling like our roles have reversed. Now she’s the big sister with four more years of wisdom instead of me, holding me together by touch and comforting words when we both know this is the opposite of okay.
I feel so small and insignificant, dreading the ensuing conversation.
She’ll tell me to stop being so stubborn and to call Dad for help. That I’m acting like a child, and I’ve got to stop being so hardheaded and to take help when it’s offered.
But allowing him to swoop in whenever I get into a bind, just because he’s wealthy, is wrong. It’s why I’ve drifted so far from what he and my mom had imagined for my life. Because I want to prove that I have what it takes to survive without them… despite them.
I’m perfectly happy with my life.
A rush of water spurts through the drywall above my head, drenching my hair and shoulders.
Perfectly. Happy.
* * *
“You’re going to love this place,” I say, nodding at the enormous bar on the other side of the dance floor. “Best IPAs this side of Keerah, and it’s ladies’ night, which means half-priced hot wings and all-you-can-eat oysters.”
We’re seated at a high table at the back of the infamous bar, Tipsy Tides, people watching and sipping a shot of tequila we’re not brave enough to shoot all at once.
“So, you’re working for a non-profit, have no savings, car, house, or any assets…?”
Having waited long enough, Carrie launches right into a lecture, instead of appreciating the fact that my tasteful side boob got us to the front of the line.
“Correct.”
“And how, exactly, were you planning on hiding all that from me?”
I circle my finger around the rim of the glass. “I wasn’t prepared for your impromptu visit, for starters.”
“That’s what impromptu means, Pen. You’re not supposed to be prepared.”
“Well, I was extra unprepared.” She gives me a pointed look. “Okay, fine. I was planning to blackmail you with that girls’ trip you took in high school that was actually a weekend sex fest with your ex.”
She slaps a hand over her chest, eyes flaring with betrayal. “You wouldn’t dare?”
Of course I wouldn’t, dammit. I would never do something like that to her, no matter how much satisfaction it might give me to finally put a chink in her perfect armor.
Fiddling with the tip of my silk, paisley-printed top, I say, “Look, I’ve been busy, all right? Who do you think was the one fixing Marcus’s scandal last summer? Newsflash, it was me.”
And what a mess that ended up being. Though, the little shit does have me to thank for his happily ever after with Heather.
I’m not on board with the notion that a woman—or anyone, for that matter—needs a partner to find true happiness, but after watching those two fall madly in love, I found myself craving that same level of intimacy more than ever.
The cuddles, the comfort, the feel of a strong man holding me tight when we lay down for bed. I want the white picket fence and the big family. A whole gaggle of kids running around like little psychos while my man smacks my dimply ass and lovingly traces my stretch marks.
“Okay, babying our cousin aside, what the hell have you been doing this whole time?” Carrie asks, bringing me out of my daydream.
The tequila burns a trail to my gut, easing some of the tension in my shoulders after I swallow. “As the youth says nowadays, living my best life.”
“You’re on drugs, aren’t you?” she asks, completely serious. “Jesus Christ. Am I going to have to call for an intervention?”
“Oh, my god.”
“Are you stripping?”
Exasperated, I roll my eyes. “Do you think I’d live in an apartment like that if I were a stripper?” When she cocks a brow, I add, “Actually, I think that’ll be my next venture.”
“Penelope.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Is it really so hard for you to believe that maybe I’m just… I don’t know, discovering myself? Figuring out where I belong in the world?”
“That’s something you do when you’re in college, experimenting with chicks and drinking questionable liquids at keg parties.”
Tipping my head, I ask, “And what would you know about that, little sister?”
When I graduated from Stanford, Carrie was starting as a freshman at Yale—Dad’s choice, of course—but I assumed she was as straight-laced and proper then as she is now.
Choosing not to comment, she flashes her phone at me, showing a search for apartments in the area. “I’m serious. Look at these prices. You heard Mr. Erickson say it could be months before the building is repaired, but you’re acting like it’s no big deal.”
I swivel on the barstool, furiously chewing my thumbnail until there’s nothing left to bite.
A notification from Mom flashes across her screen, and a bout of jealousy rises when my phone remains quiet.
“If you’re going to refuse my help, then the least you could do is call him.”
The him she’s referring to being Dad.
I reach for a napkin to dab the blood from my cuticle, and a succession of messages finally illuminates my phone screen. Except, what I find are receipts for several business courses fully paid for by Dad, and scheduled three months from now.
Logan’s smirk chooses this moment to pop into my mind.
Carrie would walk into that office and run circles around those boys with her knowledge of sales and marketing, but not me.
Then again, it could be fun to accept the position, knowing the best I could do is make a decent coffee bitch.
My heart rate ticks faster, recalling that stare and the devastation hidden behind a wall of arrogance when I left.
The money would be a relief, no doubt, and I’d earn more than enough to save a nice cushion for a new place and stash some away to help my friends. But then I wouldn’t just be working with Logan—I’d be calling him boss.
“Yeah, that’s a hell no from me,” I mutter to both my thoughts and my sister. “And I need you to promise you won’t tell them about this.”
I hold out my pinky, waiting for hers to curl around it.
“Pen…”
“Promise me,” I say, crooking it at her.
She groans before snagging my finger with hers. “Fine.”
“Let’s keep looking,” I say after swallowing the last few drops of my tequila shot. “We’ll chill in the hotel for a couple of more days until I can get some side jobs lined up. And don’t worry. I’ll make sure the rest of your visit is a blast.”
Carrie gives me that look—a pity-filled one that crawls over my skin and makes me feel small.
‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ starts blaring through the speakers, and I stuff my troubles away somewhere dark and inaccessible for the unforeseen future before grinning at her.
“No, Pen, this is serious,” my sister argues. “We need to find a better solution than simply hoping it all works out.”
But I’m already biting my lip and shoving her phone in her hand. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Let’s have some fun!”
She pouts.
“Oh, come on. You love to dance. And don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about that night in Cabo San Lucas…”
“I do my very best,” she grumbles, but she doesn’t put up a fight when I start singing, smiling widely as I drag her out to the middle of a group of obvious tourists.
I twirl her in a circle. “Ah, to be young again, shaking our asses on top of the bar without a care in the world.”
She tips her head back with a mischievous grin. “Yeah, except you ended up twisting your ankle, and who had to give you a piggyback ride for an entire block?”
Bumping her hip, I say, “You, because you love me.”
“I do love you, but your recklessness infuriates me.”
“I’m not reckless. I’m just free from the chains of expectations.”
Her eyes roll. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be lying to everyone about what you’re really up to out here.”
“La, la, la,” I singsong with my fingers in my ears. “I can’t hear you.”
I dance around her, sticking my tongue out, and laugh when she mimics me.
“Don’t you do it,” she hisses when we spot a group of girls climbing on top of the bar with the help of a few beefcakes.
I mimic my best Gene Simmons’ tongue skills, and with a confident sway of my hips, I head toward a man with a deep complexion and biceps thicker than my thighs.
Carrie may be the daughter my father’s most proud of, but trouble always was my bestie, and she never turns me away.
I spin, letting the burly man help me up beside the young twenty-somethings. They giggle when the song changes to Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell,’ and one of them even reaches back, grabbing the belt loops of my retro style jeans and yanking me into her.
Lights flash all around us and a crowd has gathered in front of where we’re dancing, and despite it all, I love that Carrie’s voice sounds above the excitement, cheering me on.
My hips move in time with the beautiful woman in front of me as she bounces her ass around. Laughter peals from my chest, and when the bartender hands us all a free shot, I happily toss it back.
“Whoo!” I spin off on my own, letting the girls have their fun while I strum an air guitar along with Billy.
My hair mats at my neck and sticks to my forehead when I whip it around and then drop to my knees. The crowd beats on the countertop, whistling and singing, and I disappear in the noise.
I let it consume me so thoughts of being a failure can’t resurface; thoughts of Logan reappearing in my life—and me being unbearably, achingly lonely while pretending I’m not—can’t drag me under a tide of despair.
I imagine myself crushing them into paper balls before chucking them into the dark void that’s become my ‘do not enter’ zone. It gobbles them up happily, except for one ball that it spits back. When it unravels at my feet, Logan’s name is written in bright red ink, and my eyes pop open.
I’m out of breath by the time the song hits the bridge, and rising to my feet proves more difficult than I anticipated. I wobble, a lot, and just like in Cabo, my foot slips and I go flying off the bar.
I might scream, I might cry out for Mommy, who knows? The world is one big blur, and my last rational thought is, damn, I never got those hot wings.
A set of strong arms and a solid chest catch me before I crack my skull against the floor. The man grunts but holds steady as I get my bearings. Lights flash across the ceiling, and I blink twice just to be sure I’m not dead, but like the title of the next song, the alcohol in my stomach is ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door’.
People nosily crowd us, but the man holding me waves them off, and they make like roaches and split. Wait, that’s not right. They scatter like bananas.
“Yup, that’s the one,” I confirm aloud.
“What the hell are you doing, Pen?”
I go utterly still at the sound of my name rumbling from the man still holding me. Piercing blue eyes meet mine, stealing every word from my tongue but his name. “Logan.”
Dammit, is this what I have to look forward to from now on? Him popping up all over my city—making himself welcome in places he doesn’t belong.
“Are you hurt?” He’s all scowly and grumbly, acting like he’s in charge of what I do and where I dance, and I don’t like it one bit.
Observing the scrap of silk that I’m calling a top, his gaze darkens. “You’re not wearing a bra.”
I squirm, trying to get away from him before I do something stupid, like let him put his hands where his eyes easily fall. “Thanks for noticing, Captain Obvious. Now put me down.”
He releases me immediately, and there’s that dumb—albeit, sexy—smirk of his coming out to play. “Nice moves, by the way.”
I fold my arms across my hardening nipples when his scorching stare snakes down my body. He’s not half-bad looking himself, not that I’d give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
“I wasn’t actually falling, you know. It was a carefully constructed, and well-thought-out, leap… of sorts.”
“Right, right.” He nods but cocks a brow. “And the part where you almost broke your neck?”
I shrug, wondering where the hell my sister is and why she hasn’t swooped in to bite his head off yet. “A minor mishap.”
It’s too dim to make out the brilliance of his eyes, but that doesn’t make them less enchanting. I kind of like the way he’s trimmed his beard along his defined jawline, highlighting his dimpling cheeks when he flashes a full-blown smile.
“You’ve been rather busy since moving to Keerah,” he drawls. “Yoga instructor, substitute teacher, barista… Seems someone’s having trouble finding themself.”
I gape at the audacity of him intruding on my life. “Stalker is not a good look for you.”
“It was all right there in your resume.” Logan smirks in a way that conveys, ‘Silly, Penelope,’ while raising a glass with clear, bubbling liquid to his lips.
I narrow my gaze as he takes a long sip. “Okay, fair. But hey, here’s a novel idea. Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“And what, pray tell, do you think I’m doing?”
My heart batters against my ribcage with each fluttering beat. Surely, he’s not implying that I’m his business? Because I’m not. I’m not Logan’s anything, except a distant teenage memory.
“Come work for me,” he says.
For a moment, I allow myself to remember him the way he once was. Soft lips, sun-bleached hair, and muscles that rippled when my fingers trailed across his skin. His eyes weren’t quite as haunted, and all these razor-sharp edges were completely retracted.
“Mmm, hard pass.”
Slowly, his free hand glides into the front pocket of his pants. The curious way he’s watching me is unnerving. All at once, I feel as though we’re sparring, swords drawn, only neither of us moves to strike.
“You’ve changed.”
“If by that, you mean I’ve been loving my life while you were busy being absent from it, then I guess you’re right.”
I cram my fingers into the thin pockets of my jeans and grab several of my favorite candies. His gaze follows my hand to my mouth, where I drop three of them on my tongue.
Then he’s leaning in so close that, for several heartbeats, he consumes my every breath. His nostrils flare when I exhale cinnamon, and his pupils explode with a deep, suppressed desire that I wish my body didn’t respond to.
“You really want to do this here?” he asks.
“I don’t see why not. Now’s as good a time as any to tell me why you turned your back on me, you filthy traitor.”
Logan, at eighteen, was hot—like, unbelievably hot—with defined abs and lanky limbs. But Logan, at thirty, is something else entirely, and hot doesn’t scratch the surface. Now, his tall, powerful body moves with grace, and I’d bet good money he could probably carry me over his shoulder without breaking a sweat.
“Me? Filthy?” He chuckles, except it rumbles from his chest like a jaguar’s purr. I’m suddenly vibrating with a warped sense of lust and fury all over again, helpless as he plucks the chords of my heartstrings. “You must have us confused, sunshine.”
Whatever he’s angling at isn’t going to work on me. No matter how hot my neck burns with that innuendo.
I want to scream that he’s the one at fault. He’s the one who chose to ‘move on’ as his father so eloquently put it. But I snap my fingers as if struck silly by the memory, instead of gutted by it. “You know, you never told me how Rachel was doing.”
Logan’s genuine confusion is unexpected, but then, he never was a master at sheltering his thoughts. “I told you at the office that I’m not with anyone. What reason would I have to lie to you?”
There’s a lot less anger in his rebuttal than there is guilt, and I don’t like that anymore than his overbearing presence. Because guilt is worse. Guilt means regret, and that’s a paper ball I don’t care to unravel.
Before I can conjure a feisty reply, I’m jolted forward by an enormous Topican man who collides into me from behind.
“Sorry,” I say, giving the man some space.
Logan grabs my arm to steady me, dropping his touch to the small of my back once I’m stable, and my spine straightens instantly. Like trillions of tiny, static-like prickles, I’m aware of the exact percentage of his palm on my heated skin.
The answer is approximately one thousand percent.
Logan’s stare turns deadly as he says, loud enough for the man to hear, “He’s the one who should be sorry, not you.”
The hostility in his tone has me glaring at him.
Just who does he think he is?
Taking a step forward, I’m met by a baby face that’s so at odds with the rest of his hulking body, it’s almost comical.
“Penelope?” my old friend says, greeting me with a dazzling smile. “Oh man, it’s so good to see you again.”
Ignoring the brooding male at my back, I squeeze the big brute. “Koa, hey. It’s been a while.”
I haven’t seen him since that night we spent together at the T’slasta festival in Augustine last year. He’s asked me out twice since then, but something about us romantically never felt quite right.
It’s not that he isn’t attractive or fun to hang out with; it’s just that we’ve been friends since we were kids. And at the time, I’d been holed up at Dad’s ranch, getting over another disappointing breakup while watching Marcus and Heather pine after each other and… I don’t know. I guess I was desperate for a little intimacy.
“You were amazing up there.”
“Thanks. I’ve been practicing the ol’ air guitar for a while.” I strum a few pretend chords, sticking my tongue out, and scrunching one eye. Koa laughs like I’m the funniest woman on the planet, but when I peek back at Logan, he’s frowning, less than amused.
There was a time when he was the one laughing at all my antics. In fact, back then, he was the only person on the planet who understood me at all.
“Would you like to dance?” Koa asks at the same time Carrie appears at my side.
“Here, sis. I grabbed you a drink.” Her eyes bulge, switching between me and Logan, as if a bomb is about to detonate. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Normally, I’d be embarrassed by her overprotective nature, but tonight, I move behind her, eager to use any shield I can to protect myself against him.
“I’ll be in touch,” Logan says.
“The hell you will,” Carrie fires back, but he acts as though he doesn’t hear her, keeping his eyes trained on me as he slowly retreats.
The base thumps in time with my pounding heart. It’s hot in here with all these bodies, but I’m frozen to my core, watching him go.
Logan holds my gaze a moment longer before crossing the floor to where Declan sits in a booth with a woman kissing his neck.
Yeah, walk away.
Not that I’m surprised to see him go.
“I would love a dance, thank you,” I say, forcing a smile to Koa.
When I catch my sister’s worried gaze, I find a predictable slew of questions, but for once, she doesn’t utter a word.