Chapter 6 #2
Lucy pulls a notebook and pen out of her bag and smiles up at the two of us.
She explains that Mina had a plan with the story, and she’s trying to follow it as closely as she can, talking about the businesses in Whitby that come alive when the Goth Weekend is on, and how this quaint seaside town came to be such an epicentre of all things dark and alternative.
I wince internally as she starts with the questions. I’ve never loved talking about myself, and that’s only intensified now that I have so much more to hide. But I hear Sammi’s voice in my head and force myself to smile. It’ll be great publicity. And the good kind, not the sort I normally attract.
Dean hasn’t wasted any time. He’s already talking ten to the dozen about Ravenskull.
I mean, the name doesn’t even make sense for a bar.
Dean and I were in a band called Ravenskull together, once upon a time, and when we broke up Dean just couldn’t let it go.
It’s painfully obvious if you know the story, and if you don’t it just seems like he just picked the two most basic goth things he could think of and mashed them together.
I stare at his face as he talks and fantasise about mashing it into something instead.
He’s really working the charm as he talks to Lucy – all eye contact and smiles, lightly bumping her shoulder with his when he tells a joke.
Every so often he leans in conspiratorially, like he’s sharing some big secret, when I know for a fact that all of the stuff he’s telling her is readily available on Ravenskull’s website.
Yes, I have hate-read it more than once. No, I’m not particularly proud of that fact.
I try to study them without being too sinister.
Lucy’s head is turned towards him, her head tilted just enough that it exposes her neck, the pale skin moving and flexing as she talks.
I don’t know if I’m imagining the jump of her pulse at the hollow under her jaw, but I have a sudden, fleeting urge to taste her there. A rush of heat rolls up my body.
I’m just imagining how it would feel to gently drag my teeth down the length of her throat when she spins to face me, and every last thought exits my brain.
‘You got anything to add to that, Bram?’ she asks, her brow furrowed in concentration. ‘Or do you prefer Liam?’
My stomach knots, any lustful thoughts extinguished in a second. ‘Bram is good,’ I say past the grip of my throat. ‘No one calls me Liam anymore.’
Ok, that’s not entirely true, but I don’t want to elaborate, especially not while Dean’s within earshot.
She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to answer her question, but it must be bloody obvious that I wasn’t listening to a word they were saying, because after a moment she smiles and takes pity on me.
‘Dean was just explaining about the relationship the two of you have.’ She spins her pen between her fingers. ‘Sounds like a healthy rivalry you’ve got going on.’
Ha! Healthy is the very last word I’d use to describe it. My eyes dart to Dean’s, and he smirks. There’s no way I can dispute this story without it looking like I’m the arsehole, so I just force my rage down and smile.
‘Since we were kids,’ I say, in what I hope is a light-hearted way, and when Lucy looks down to scribble something else in her notebook, I take the opportunity to glare at Dean over her head. He pulls a face but drops back to a neutral smile as soon as her head comes back up.
I will away the twitch in my eye and tell the story of how we grew up.
At first it’s the truth – how we were the only two alternative kids in our class, and we loved and hated each other for it.
How we wanted to go our separate ways as we grew up, but somehow those ways always seemed, to the annoyance of us both, to lead in roughly the same direction.
Then I start to leave things out. I don’t mention Jessica – or Dean sleeping with her – nor me pulling Dean out of my house by his hair, leaving him hollering at the front door, naked as the day he was born.
I don’t mention how our resulting fight put both of us in hospital and landed me with a police caution and not one single regret.
Lucy is bent over, furiously scribbling notes as I tell the story, but as I veer away from the truth, her pen stills, and she looks at me steadily, blue eyes soft and fixed on mine like she’s taking in every word.
I just hope to God she isn’t seeing past any of them.
I try to sneak a look at what she’s written, but it’s like some kind of code, her looping cursive completely unintelligible from this angle. The only thing I can make out is my own name, underlined twice.
And then Dean is talking again, pulling Lucy’s attention back to him as he so loves to do.
He’s waxing lyrical about Ravenskull’s themed cocktails, telling her how he pulled inspiration from the rich gothic history of the town, even though he must know that I know they’re almost entirely lifted from our specials list.
I need to say more about Bitten and the guys – Sammi will kill me if I don’t – but something about sharing space with the idiot across the table tends to suck all the life out of me.
Ironic, as I’m the one with fangs.
I realise, though, just as Lucy’s genuine laugh at whatever bullshit Dean is feeding her tears a hot lance of jealousy across my chest, that one of us will be sleeping under the same roof as her tonight, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be Deano.
I’m just about to shoot him a smug look when Lucy checks her watch and turns to me, almost catching me in the act.
‘I have so much more to ask you,’ she says, eyes wide, ‘but I know you’re supposed to be working, and I don’t want to keep you.’
I tap my phone screen to wake it up and wince when I see the time.
I’m already cutting it pretty fine. I can see two messages from Sammi just on my lock screen, plus at least one each from Fox and Emmy.
Setting up the group chat for the bar was a mistake.
I get updates on every last thought each of them has now, and I’m willing to bet that the last few are centred around them wondering how long I’m going to be.
‘I’ve probably got to get going,’ I say, hoping that my voice doesn’t betray the cut of disappointment in my throat. I see Dean smirk in my periphery and grit my teeth against the urge to slap that smile off his stupid face.
‘Well,’ Lucy says with a smile, clicking her pen and sliding it into the binding of her notebook, ‘if you don’t mind a tag-along, maybe I could join you and you could show me the bar? I’d love to see it!’
I feel the graze of plastic fangs against my lip as I grin.
‘Brilliant. It’s a date!’ I say, deliberately looking up at Dean, who is now the one trying to choke down his rage.
Lucy thanks him for his time and takes his number so she can ask him some follow-up questions, but it doesn’t wipe the smile off my face, not then and not when he stands to hug her and she reciprocates.
And when Lucy bumps my shoulder with hers and we walk out of the pub together, I feel like I’m on top of the damn world.
Take that, Ratty Ratcliffe.