Memphis
“Stop staring at your phone,” Storm grunts.
Ignoring him, I dial her number again. It rings once before going to voicemail.
Just like it has for the last seven days.
Did she block my number?
“I’m about to block your number,” Storm yaps.
Fuck. Didn’t realize I said that aloud.
He signals for the waiter, who rushes over. “Ten shots. Tequila.”
I value my privacy, so I rarely go to restaurants. Especially upscale rooftop ones like this, but Storm insisted I get my ass out of bed and meet him for lunch.
Although, I’m not sure why he chose this place. Or why he’s ordering enough shots to get white girl wasted.
“It’s one in the afternoon.”
“Happy hour is any hour, my friend. Besides, you’re gonna need it after I hit you with this reality check.”
Here we fucking go. I’ve had more than enough of his reality checks these past few weeks.
I gesture for him to get this shit over with.
Blowing out a breath, he starts ticking things off with his fingers. “Josh proposed and she said yes.”
Fair enough. However, I understand why she accepted once she explained things to me. “Yes, but—”
“She flat out told you she didn’t love you and that her heart belonged to another man.”
My chest tightens. Neither my brain nor my heart can seem to justify that one. “I know—”
He opens his arms wide. “Josh opened the door and all but told her to leave with you.”
And therein lies the nucleus of this weird feeling that’s taken up residence in my gut since I peeled out of the driveway.
When Josh told me Skylar came clean about us, I thought for sure he’d make good on his threat about calling of the cops and informing them I murdered Sky’s uncle.
I was more or less prepared for the SWAT team to show up at my apartment after I got home.
But they didn’t.
Hell, there wasn’t even so much as a lukewarm warning to stay away from her.
The motherfucker was even bordering on pleasant during the meeting with Vic yesterday.
A meeting Sky didn’t attend.
“I hear you.”
Logically, I know he’s giving me more than enough reasons to write her off and move the fuck on for good.
Even still.
“I don’t know, man. I got this feeling in my gut.”
“That feeling isn’t your gut.” He points to my groin. “It’s your balls holding on for dear life because you’re one pout away from losing them for good.”
And that’s the moment the waiter arrives with our shots.
“Is there anything else I can get you, gentlemen?”
“I’ll take another glass of water, and my buddy here will take a new nutsack.”
It’s clear he wants to laugh, but he must want a good tip even more because he wisely keeps his mouth shut before walking away.
“I am not pouting.”
He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Pouting, sulking, moping around. It’s all the same shit.”
“Thanks for the lesson, Merriam-Webster.” Crossing my arms, I stare him down. “Look, I’ll make you a deal.”
“Sorry, bruh. I’m not giving you my balls—”
“You mean the ones that only last two minutes tops before busting?” I interject. “Hard pass.”
That takes the asshole down a few notches.
“Ten minutes, shithead,” he murmurs with a frown.
Smirking, I grab a fry off his plate. “Look who’s pouting now?”
An irritated sound leaves him. “What kind of deal we talking about, fuckface?”
“I’ll stop thinking about her—”
He snorts.
“I’ll move on,” I amend through clenched teeth. “If you call her right now and see how she’s doing.”
Then I’ll know for sure if this feeling holds any water…or if it’s the stupid thing in my chest playing tricks on me and refusing to face facts.
Rolling his eyes, he brings his phone to his ear. A moment later he sighs. “Voicemail.”
“How many times did it ring?”
“One.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm nothing, man. A deal’s a deal.”
“No deal until you talk to her.”
His eyebrows shoot up to the fancy umbrella we’re dining under. “What the hell am I supposed to do, man? Send smoke signals?”
I wouldn’t be opposed to it at this point. However, there’s a more efficient way to get in contact with her.
“Call Josh.”
“And just casually demand I speak to his fiancée? Are you sure you’re not the one on drugs?”
Fiancée.
Hearing that word never fails to tear apart my insides.
Bypassing the shots, I take a sip of my drink. “Yes.”
“Fine.” His sigh is expansive. “You better be dicking down the next hot girl that makes eyes at you.”
“For a straight guy, you sure spend a lot of time thinking about my dick.”
Grumbling, he punches a few buttons on his phone.
“Speaker,” I mouth as the waiter returns…with a fresh glass of water for Storm and what appears to be two small chocolate balls on a dish.
Hilarious.
“What?” Josh answers after the third ring.
Equally annoyed, Storm reaches over and pops one of the balls into his mouth. “Hey…pal.”
“Hi.”
The press depicts Sharp Objects as one big happy family filled with brotherly love.
Little do they know there’s a shit-ton of animosity brewing between certain members.
“Don’t worry, I’m not calling to talk to you. I need to speak to Skylar real quick.”
I don’t even need to see Josh to know he’s pissed with Storm’s request. “Why the hell do you need to speak to my girl?”
A vision of me driving my truck through his mansion is materializing in my mind when Storm utters, “I have a question about…” There’s a long pause. “Makeup.”
I give him a what the fuck look at the same time Josh scoffs, “Makeup?”
Storm shrugs. “Yeah. I’m…looking for a present for Grams.”
Nice save.
Josh’s exhale is expansive and irritated. Like he regrets ever answering the call. “She’s in the shower. I’ll have her call you back later.”
“A’ight. Cool—”
My boot collides with his shin.
“Fuck,” he grunts. “On second thought, that’s not gonna work. I’m on a bit of a time crunch so I’ll just wait,” Storm amends, glaring at me. “Anyhoo, how ya been, man? Watch any of those videos I sent you? Maybe read that Flea interview where he talked about locking in with the drummer?”
Oh, hell. Here we fucking go.
However, it does the trick because a moment later Josh gripes, “Christ Almighty, dickhead. Hold on.”
I tune in to the background noise, but there isn’t any.
Did he mute it?
“You could have just hung up the phone, idiot,” Storm mutters under his breath.
Fortunately, common sense isn’t all too common for Josh.
Not unless he’s trying to manipulate someone. Then the fucker could audition for a starring role on Game of Thrones.
It feels like an eternity passes before Skylar’s voice comes over the line. “Hey, Storm. What’s up?”
She sounds cheerful enough, but something’s awry. I just can’t put my finger on it.
“Hey. Listen, Grams’s birthday is coming up, and I need help picking out a present.”
“Grams’s birthday isn’t until June.”
I give him a warning look. He better fix this hole he just dug himself.
“Not her real birthday,” Storm corrects. “The fake birthday she gives all the men at Bingo.”
Skylar laughs, but that’s different, too. Devoid of its usual humor. “You mean the one that makes her ten years younger than her actual age?” There’s a pause. “Why doesn’t she just use her actual birth date and change the year?”
Yeah, Storm.
“It’s Grams. Who knows why that woman does half the shit she does,” Storm counters. “Anyway, she’s been hinting that she wants some lip shit, but that’s not my department. Hence, I’m calling you. Or rather, Josh, since you didn’t answer your phone.”
Coming in clutch.
“Oh, sorry. My phone…” I sit up straight when she hesitates half a beat. “I dropped it in the toilet. I’m trying the rice trick, but I’m pretty sure it’s toast. I’ll have to order a new one this week.”
“Already on it, beautiful,” Josh exclaims in the background.
“You’re the best, baby,” Sky says cheerfully.
A little too cheerfully.
The gnawing feeling is back with a vengeance.
Something is off.
Like an out-of-tune note I can’t unhear.
“Ruby Woo by Mac is what you want,” she states matter-of-factly. “It’s one of my personal favorites. It’s a blue-based red that looks great on everyone. Grams will love it.”
Storm cuts me a look that I can only interpret as ‘satisfied?’
Hardly. But I nod anyway.
“Thanks. I owe you. Anyway, how have you been? Missed you at the meeting yes—”
“Sorry, man,” Josh cuts in. “We’re running late for a different meeting…with our wedding planner.”
It’s a visceral punch to the gut. She’s really going through with it?
Storm hangs up. When he looks at me it’s not with triumph. It’s with pity. “Ready to move on now?”
I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to move on from Sky.
“Something’s fishy.”
“Goddammit. Nothing’s fishy, mister it-was-Colonel Mustard-with-a candlestick. She sounds happy.”
“Exactly.”
His brow flicks up. “I don’t follow.”
“Her relationship with Josh was on the rocks before he proposed. He does a two-week stint in rehab and now suddenly she’s acting like…”
“A woman who’s about to marry the man she loves?”
Agony floods my chest as visions of Sky walking down the aisle assault my brain.
I thought she loved me. I fucking felt it.
I thought she was truly mine this time.
The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior, you dope.
I reach for a tequila shot and down it. “Fuck you.”
“Shit, if I thought it would get you over her, I’d seriously consider it.” Studying me, he steeples his fingers. “She’s happy, Memphis. And I know that hurts like hell, but you have to move on. You don’t have a choice. Because you know what happens if you don’t?”
“What?”
“She’ll keep running to you and your dick whenever there’s trouble in paradise…
and you’ll keep letting her all while falling ever deeper for her in the process.
Then, the moment you have that glimmer of hope that she’s ready to run off into the sunset with you—bam.
” He pounds the table with his fist for emphasis.
“She’ll reach inside your chest and crush your beating heart in her hands again, and again… and again.”
Genuine concern fills his expression. “You’ll never get married or have kids.
Eventually, you’ll quit the band because your entire life will consist of being stuck on this endless fucked-up rollercoaster of highs and lows.
Which might be worth it if you were the one she picked…
but she didn’t. She never will, brother. Her track record proves it.”
I fight the urge to ram my fist into his jaw.
He just predicted my future with pristine accuracy.
Sky’s always been my first choice, but I’ll never be hers.
Fuck. I want her. So fucking much. Too fucking much.
But being her benchwarmer isn’t the life I want.
He hands me another shot. “I’m sorry, man, but you need to take off those rose-colored glasses and see the situation for what it is.”
His advice sounds awfully familiar.
“Arch—my dad—told me the same shit after she did it the first time.” A heavy feeling invades my chest. “I didn’t want to believe it.”
I still don’t.
Storm nods solemnly. “What’s that saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—”
“Shame on me.”
“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” the waiter interjects, holding a tray with two more shots on it.
Storm and I exchange a glance.
“We didn’t order those.”
Not yet anyway.
He points to the table across the way from us. “The young ladies over there insisted on buying your next round.”
Storm turns around to investigate right as the waiter passes me a napkin.
“I was also instructed to give you this.”
It’s a phone number…and a name.
Gwen.
Pass. I crumple the napkin into a ball. “Not interes—”
“Tell them to come to our table,” Storm cuts in. “And put their meal on my tab.”
“Very well, sir.”
“What the fuck?” I grind out as the waiter scurries off.
He hikes a thumb at the table of women behind him.
“Dude. That blonde in the middle over there is Gwyneth Barclay.”
He says it like it’s supposed to mean something. “I have no idea who she is.”
He looks at me like I’ve sprouted another head. “She’s the star of The Barclays.”
Still not ringing any bells.
“It’s a reality show about her and her hot sisters.”
Well, that explains it. That kind of bullshit just isn’t my thing.
Didn’t think it was Storm’s either.
My expression must give me away because he shrugs sheepishly.
“I jerk off to it sometimes.” He wags a finger in my now amused face. “That’s not the point. The point is, that chick is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’d drink her bathwater.”
That’s not saying much. Storm would eat and drink a lot of stuff others wouldn’t.
“Motherfucker, would you just look at her.”
I appease him, but only so he’ll shut the hell up.
The organ in my chest might be fucked, but I’m not blind. The girl giving me a coy smile is everything Storm said she was.
Except for one very important thing. She’s not Sky.
“Nah.” I push my chair back and stand. “Enjoy that bathwater, though.”
“Chump,” he calls out as I walk away, leaving him to foot the bill.
Once again, he’s right.
Because I’m heading home…where I’ll spend the rest of the night playing her song on my guitar for the millionth time.
Perfecting every single note and chord. All while wondering why I’m not good enough.
And why the woman I love will never love me back.