6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Laredo
I t’s worse than I expected.
I’m pacing down the boardwalk at Seaside. It’s a beautiful evening, a warm ocean breeze filling the air with a salty scent that makes me think of saltwater taffy. Adam is watching me stride for stride, yapping about all things Ariel.
We just had a quick meet-up with her and her friend Emily, sharing an ice cream and working out the plans for the week. Ariel’s focus is on the music, always the music. She outlined the rehearsal schedule for the week, including the ridiculously early start tomorrow, with me, her, and Adam booked in a local studio all day for the next few days.
But that’s not the issue.
The issue is my twin, who can’t stop babbling. I thought he had it bad for her back in Boston the first time he met her. Tonight, it’s downright embarrassing the way he behaves around her, hanging on her every word she says as if it’s the gospel, according to Paula, giving her that goofy smile that he thinks is attractive. He’s out of his depth.
“I found one of her early tracks—I think it’s from her sophomore year in college. Some fans posted it. Did you know she and her band have over one hundred fan-dedicated pages? Anyway, she played this Spanish guitar tune, even sang some verses in Spanish. Her range…”
Adam is in his lovestruck Ariel era, and its only day one. Bury me in the sand right now.
“Here.” I shove my acoustic guitar into his chest, not giving him any option other than to grab it. I carried the usually reliable instrument to our meet-up, looking to impress Ariel with my skills, but she quickly sidelined me.
Meet and greet tonight. Work tomorrow. Those were her dismissive words, delivered with a practiced attitude and a cute smirk, a duo of delivery I’ve practiced myself. She is everything I hope to be shortly. Successful, confident, demanding, and she knows what she wants and how to get it.
Right now, I’m in my fake-it-till-I-make-it phase. I’m taking notes, and Adam is falling in love.
It’s only ten o’clock. Ariel ended the night early to give us time to rest up for tomorrow’s session. That’s not going to happen. We’re in a beach town that is buzzing about the upcoming music festival, and I have the rest of the night free.
“Where are you going?” Adam asks, already reading the look on my face.
“Not back to the hotel at this hour. Go and practice. You need it.” If I was a better brother, I’d have him tag along. Since last summer, we’ve reconciled a lot of the crap that’s always kept us bickering. But listening to him drone all night over a woman who’s clearly out of his league is not my idea of a fun time. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I don’t wait to give him a chance to respond. Not when I can see the lights of the Driftwood in the distance. Driftwood is the local reckless bar that became my hideaway last summer. It is also the bar where Betty works.
My pulse kicks up a beat, and I take a deep inhale, not believing I’m about to do this. I’m familiar with my reputation. Hell, I’m the one who developed the press release. I’m going to be a famous rock star someday, and I refuse to let myself get tied down, not when there is a world of women waiting for me when I hit it big.
Even with the modest success of our family band, I’ve experienced perks that should never be put in front of a horny teenager. Adam, being Adam, meant I had twice the options.
Restraint and self-control are lessons I have never learned. But I had the foresight to abide by one rule: no strings.
“Just checking out the local scene,” I mutter as I push through the door to Driftwood and instantly remember how much I love this bar.
The music is loud, the drinks flow freely, and the laughs in the air are genuine. I step around the inhibitions the customers leave at the door, and a happy smile tugs on my face.
To my right, a table filled with women cheer on one of their own as she blows out a cupcake candle. Half the bar pitches in with whistles and loud cheers. A joyous, celebratory mood hangs in the air. It has been every time I’ve come. To my left, a server in a tight tank top and cutoff jeans spins between a group of guys, holding a tray filled with cocktails and a welcoming smile that screams grab a seat, you’re home .
A young couple sits on the large piece of driftwood to my left. The ten-foot-long piece of wood has been polished, varnished, and shellacked with a shiny sheen that reflects the overhead lights. The bar’s namesake and signature piece is perfectly framed in front of a colorful watercolor mural of the ocean.
My excited eyes snap with the movement of every brunette in search of Betty. My feet move on autopilot, taking me toward the small stage in the corner. A drum set and two guitars on stands rest behind a thin rope. The band is on break. I’m familiar with the schedule. The next set kicks off at midnight. I have half a mind to grab the microphone and announce my presence, but I don’t.
Chill.
I need a drink. I work my way to the three-deep bar and watch the duo of bartenders completing a synchronized performance stolen from Tom Cruise and the movie Cocktail . They juggle bottles with a practiced ease that has women leaning over the tabletop, shouting. The unique combination of salt water, sunscreen, and alcohol has me grinning like an underage kid with a fake ID. I’ve missed this place.
“Never thought I’d see you here again.” A hard-edged voice from behind me puts me on alert. I don’t turn. Not immediately. I plaster on a protective smirk and take a quick inventory of women I might have offended in this town. Back in my home state of Indiana, that list would be long. Here, not so much.
“I’m sure you’ve been counting down the days.” I spin to face Betty’s best friend, Olivia.
One hand on her hip and the other holding a tray with two empty mugs, Olivia tilts her head and scoffs out a loud breath filled with disappointment and disbelief. She hasn’t changed one bit. The same tight tank top, the same Daisy Duke shorts, strawberry blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, gray-green eyes, and a dusting of freckles across her full cheeks.
I chuckle at her reaction. From what I remember, Olivia is a huge fan of the dramatic. She reaches up and unties her ponytail, letting hair cascade over her bare shoulder. Last summer, I watched many a man let their gaze follow the fall of her hair until they were staring at her boobs. Her smart retort shouted across the bar every time— hey, my eyes are up here.
I won’t fall for her bar trick. Her lips purse when she realizes I’ve passed her test. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” Her eyes shift from disbelief to concern, and I realize I’ve misread her. This isn’t playful banter.
“The festival.” I say two words, hoping it clears up whatever confusion she may possess.
Her head shake tells me it doesn’t. “That can’t be. I checked. You’re not listed.”
I reach for her elbow and navigate us away from the crowded bar area. “You checked? I didn’t take you for the stalker type?”
Olivia nods at some dude who lifts his empty drink in her direction, pointing at it for a refill. I tap her forearm and point toward the exit and the quieter outdoor seating area, where we’ll be able to hear one another.
The shift in sound from the loud rock music to the sound of waves hitting the surf in the distance is abrupt. I jump in before she can hit me with another question. “Is Betty working tonight?”
Olivia lowers her head, her gaze burrowing a hole into the boardwalk planks. “Why are you here, Laredo?” She answers my question with a question.
“The music festival.” I give her three words this time, hoping for a different outcome. When she doesn’t respond, I expound, “I’m working with one of the artists.” It takes everything in me to withhold Ariel’s name. Everyone knows Ariel. But she was very explicit. This is an under-the-covers assignment. No one is to know we’re working with her. At least for now.
If things go well, by the end of the week, she’ll have a new sound and will let the world know who helped her discover it.
Another head shake. “No. Why are you here?” She jabs a finger back toward the bar. Driftwood. She wants to know why I’m at the bar. The one she and Betty work at. Isn’t it obvious?
But I don’t give her the expected. That’s not my thing. “Best bar scene on the boardwalk.”
Olivia slips her tray onto a high-top table, crosses her arms against her chest, and gives me her best watch yourself stare. “There are a dozen others. Why come here to pick up your seasonal hookup? To rub it in our faces?”
Wait, what? She thinks I’m here to score.
She points down the boardwalk. “The Seaside Saloon is three paces that way.” She lowers her hand and jabs that same manicured finger hard into my chest. “And a quarter of a mile behind you in town is the Sin Saloon. They offer a two-for-one that is right up your alley—skanks and STDs.”
My hands rise in surrender. “Whoa, whoa.” I take a half step back. “Olivia, this is me. What’s with this reception?” I’m clueless. I don’t know Olivia well, but I thought we had a good time together when we hung last summer. I even introduced her to my brother, Adam.
“Of course you act like you have no idea,” she mutters. Frustration permeates off her, and I replay last summer in my head. Betty and I connected, had a blast, and both agreed it was what it was.
“I don’t.” My whisper is meant for my ears, but by the fire that flares in her eyes, I know she’s heard it.
“Guys like you never do.” She nibbles on her lower lip, and I prepare for another onslaught.
We’re going in circles, and I don’t have any alcohol in me yet. I need to cut to the chase. “Where is Betty?”
Her hands fly up into the air like she’s releasing doves at a wedding. “Freaking clueless.” She spins on her heels and takes two steps away from me, and for a second, I wonder if she’s about to race to the beach. I lean forward to follow and halt when she spins and jabs her finger at me again. My right-hand shoots to my chest, covering the spot she’s just poked.
“Do you even remember that my best friend and I share everything?” Her voice cracks, and her anger shifts to hurt. “Shared?” Her eyelashes flutter, and I hold my breath. Is she fighting back tears?
“Same job. Same work schedule.” Her voice lowers, losing a bit of its edge. “Same clothes.” I take a step closer to her as her voice lowers to a whisper. “And every secret we are too afraid to share with anyone else.”
I hold my comment, too many questions swirling in my head. She isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know. They’re closer than most siblings. What the hell is going on?
“Betty doesn’t work here anymore?”
Her slow head shake is filled with sadness and history.
Her reaction makes me want to pull her into a hug. A hug I’m not sure she deserves. Not if she is the cause of the breakup. “What the hell happened?”
“You!” She spits the word back at me with an anger that confuses me. “You are what happened.” She marches toward me, grabbing the tray and giving me a hard shoulder bump. “You are the reason. Why don’t you just leave?”