Chapter Six
It’s been over since forever
But I still can’t help but wonder
Do you still fiddle with your jewelry?
Order green tea? Cry at movies?
Throw your head back when laughing?
Oh, can you still see right through me?
(Can you still see right through me?)
—US Lyric Bot [@HourlyUS]
The Jackson Motel’s breakfast nook was completely empty, aside from Jake, who sat by himself at an inconspicuous table in the back corner.
Well, the table itself was inconspicuous.
The amount of food spread across the table was not.
Jake’s feast included three scones, a box of cereal, milk, five strips of bacon, syrup, a small bowl of fruit, strudel, four sausage links, a coffeepot, two mugs, one lone banana, something I assumed to be a quiche, and assorted jewel-colored jams and jellies.
I could picture him with his arms piled high, jogging back and forth between the buffet and the table multiple times.
I rolled my eyes. People didn’t need another reason to do a double take—Jake himself already stuck out enough as it was in this run-down motel.
He’d slung his black leather motorcycle jacket over the back of his chair and still wore the outfit he had on last evening, like he’d fallen asleep in his clothes.
A thin silver chain necklace I hadn’t noticed before curved over his collarbone and disappeared below the open collar of his shirt, and he studied his coffee in a way that made him seem contemplative, though that might’ve just been how his face looked.
Jake had the sort of enigmatic features that made him look as if he was hiding a mysterious secret.
He was a modern, male Mona Lisa. Only broodier.
“Hi, Sylvester,” I greeted. Seriously, Mr. Resting Smolder Face, whatever happened to aliases like John Smith? “I taut I taw a puddy-tat.”
Jake’s eyes landed on my pale-yellow blouse. “Tweety Bird.”
Touché.
Glancing pointedly at the medieval-esque banquet table, I asked, “You expecting company?”
“Just your lovely self. Sit.”
“I’m not a guest here.”
Jake shrugged. “I’m staying in a suite, which is supposed to be for . . .” Jake reached into his pocket, unfolded a paper pamphlet, and glanced down at it. “Three to five people. So I think an extra piece of bacon or two’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
I sent him a judgmental look as he re-pocketed the pamphlet and refocused his attention on spreading an obscene amount of apricot jelly on a scone. “You’re staying in a suite?”
“I didn’t want to,” Jake replied, wolfing down the scone in an impressive two bites and reaching for the cereal. “All the regular motel rooms were already taken. It’s convention season or something and there’s a whole bunch of stuffy businessmen here.”
Jake glanced up at my face, then rolled his eyes.
Unceremoniously, he stretched his leg under the table and pushed out the chair opposite him with his boot.
His gaze dropped to the seat in invitation.
“Come on, Luciana. Don’t just stand there.
Chill. Eat a Pop-Tart or something. You probably rushed over here without bothering to stop for breakfast.”
How had he known that?
I refused to let the surprise show on my face. Just because Jake somehow guessed what I did that morning didn’t mean he knew me anymore.
“Lucky guess,” I said.
“I’m a lucky guy,” he replied flatly.
My brow ticked up. So, this was the new Jake Moody: Unreasonably cool. Unbearably hot.
Unfortunately aggravating.
I wasn’t sure this was someone I wanted to have breakfast with. Still, it’d be a waste of free food if I said no.
Taking a seat, I grabbed a plate and a mini quiche.
“Nice boots, by the way,” I said begrudgingly, my inner fashion critic unable to resist commenting on the shoes I’d seen when he kicked the chair out. “Doc Martens?”
Jake paused, spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth.
“I don’t know?” he replied, scrunching up his nose. It should’ve been a statement, but the way his voice went up at the end and his slightly perplexed look made it sound more like a question. “My stylist normally buys all my clothes.”
I raised an eyebrow and plucked a strawberry out of a bowl. So much for the rebellious, cool-guy image. “The great big bad boy has a fashion expert pick out his outfits for him?”
“It’s to keep me on brand for the band’s image. The label doesn’t trust me after I used my first paycheck to buy Luccheses.”
What were those? Why wouldn’t the label like them? I ran through the mental catalog of brand names I’d seen in upscale second-hand stores. Louboutin. Louis Vuitton. Louis Philippe. Lu— “Wait, are you talking about those fancy cowboy boots?”
Jake gave me an innocent expression, which didn’t exactly work with the whole outfit he had on.
“That fits.” I shook my head, looking down at my plate and hoping it hid my smile. “I tend to think of Somerset as your hometown like it is mine. But that’s wrong, though. You’re from Texas.”
Another thought crossed my mind, making me study him for a second as he dumped another helping of brightly colored cereal into his bowl.
Jake noticed me watching.
“What?” he asked, stubbornly giving the cereal box another firm shake and dumping more out, as if daring me to say something. But I wasn’t about to comment on his neon breakfast.
“Nothing, it’s just—” I laughed under my breath, not quite believing the question about to leave my mouth. “What happened to your accent?”
His accent had been soft and mellow, wrapping around his words. I didn’t dream about Jake anymore, but when I used to, he always spoke in the voice I knew from middle school—not the one I heard on TV.
“Oh, that.” Jake cleared his throat. “The band’s publicist thought I was a little hard to understand in interviews, so she wanted me to talk slower and clearer so my accent wouldn’t slip through.”
Seriously? That’s nonsense. I never found him hard to understand.
“She wanted less Tex, more LAX in general,” Jake continued.
“That’s why, when we debuted, she told the press I grew up in Los Angeles.
” I felt a pang through my chest. It’s like Jake’s past with Somerset and The Tiny Tiger and me never existed.
“Marie was all for it too. She didn’t think a twang fit in with the bad boy image. ”
“But you’re not in an interview now.”
“I guess I got used to talking like this,” he said with a shrug, seeming unbothered by this lost piece of himself. “My accent’s mostly faded now.”
Hmph. My favorite game used to be trying to get Jake to say words where his accent showed more without him knowing—like windshield or library or charcuterie. Though that last one was admittedly a challenge to slip into casual conversation.
I reached across to his side of the table, snagging the last piece of bacon before he could reach for it. “You ever get it back?”
“Sometimes, I guess? Like when I’m really tired. Or super excited or nervous about something and not paying attention to speaking a certain way.” Jake gave me a peculiar look. “Why are we talking about my accent?”
“Because your rap sheet isn’t really breakfast conversation.”
Jake snorted. “Rap sheet.”
“Right.” Who was I kidding? Jake didn’t have a rap sheet.
I saw the way the cops were smiling at him after the fountain incident.
And the graffiti one. “You probably just do the celebrity thing and autograph your way out of trouble.” Rolling my eyes, I poured myself a cup of coffee.
“Were you really taking a joyride in Crystal Ashton’s Ferrari when you missed coming onstage after US won at the Artist Awards? ”
“I’ll tell you what I told my manager: I was in the bathroom.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Whatever. Here,” Jake said, pushing a tiny silver cup across the table toward me without making eye contact.
“Uh . . .” I stared down at this bizarre peace offering. “Is this maple syrup?”
“Yeah. I saved it for you.”
Frowning down at it in confusion, I asked, “Why?”
“Because you always pour some with cream in your coffee.”
“That old habit’s long gone,” I told him. “I haven’t done that since the second semester of freshman year.”
“Oh,” Jake said, looking lost. He didn’t have an exact map to me anymore like he used to—he’d entered uncharted territory.
And he’d just plunged into Snarky, Shark-Infested Waters.
“What?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “You think you’re the only one who gets to turn into someone else?”
Jake raised an eyebrow in perfect imitation of me.
“Someone else?” he questioned, deadpan. As if he didn’t leave with button-downs and a sweet disposition and turn into some kind of heart-wrecking pop star–frat boy crossover.
“Never mind. You can have this,” I said, pushing the maple syrup back to his side of the table, then retracting my hand. “Or not. You weren’t crazy about it when I made some in the café for you to try that one time, were you?”
Jake shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he glanced down at the maple syrup, opening his mouth and then closing it.
“Forget about it,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.
” I glanced around the nook. “This place hasn’t changed since we were last here.
” Jake and I mostly hung out in the café, but I visited him here a few times and had listened to him play the rickety piano in the corner of the party room.
“The carpet and the wallpaper’s got to be at least as old as my mom. ”
“Yeah. You know, it’s funny,” Jake said, looking around too.
“I thought the motel might look just a little bit different four years later. Places in LA are always renovating to be trendy, but . . .” He glanced over at the faded wallpaper, then down at the ugly blue carpet beneath his black boots. “Everything here’s the same.”
“Unlike you,” I said, before I could help myself.
“And you,” he countered, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. “What happened to your hair?”
“My hair?” I echoed, gesturing at him with a forkful of quiche. “What about yours? Since when were you so interested in styling?”