Beneath the Shine Read online

  I ignore the unsavory nickname, biting my lip and slowly shaking my head before releasing it. “He’s looking, though,” I add, kicking my voice up a notch to cover the lie.

  Adair raises a brow; it’s clear he’s not buying what I’m selling, even with my upbeat tone. But he doesn’t push it. Instead, he tips his head back toward the bar, where about a half mile behind it in that direction is his house. “You know you can always move in with me.” He spreads his arms out like he’s going to give me a hug or something. “Comes with your own room and your own bathroom, completely rent free.” He waggles his brows. “And I won’t even make you participate in Naked Wednesdays. How’s that for a deal?”

  I purse my lips. “Naked Wednesdays, huh? So that means I’d have to be subjected to your pasty white ass once a week?”

  He winks. “Well, if once a week isn’t enough…”

  I just glare at him. Little clicks against the hardwood draw my attention down to Gabriel who, after extensively exploring the taproom for edibles and coming up empty handed, pads between us and drops to the floor with a soft huff.

  Adair studies him, the humor slipping from his expression. “Seriously, Betsy. Think about it. You could invest what you’re paying for rent now into your photography business. It’s not like that arsehole you’re dating is helping out any.” I open my mouth to argue when he gives me a look that makes me slam it back shut. “He’s not, and you’re not tied to him. Besides, I’m going nuts in that big house all alone. To be honest, I’d like the company.” He pretends to shiver. “Gets downright spooky out here at night.”

  Adair lives in the house that came with the property, an old brick ranch longer than it is wide. Aside from replacing the nasty shag carpet in the living and dining rooms he moved in, the place hasn’t been updated since it was built in the sixties. The layout boasts five bedrooms, four bathrooms, an outdated basement filled with faux wood paneling and (more) shag carpet and gives a whole new meaning to Midcentury modern.

  “I hardly think you spend that many nights a–a–” I cover my mouth as a yawn rises up from somewhere so deep it makes my eyes water. “… alone,” I finish. That funeral and the wake along with all the condolences and cleaning up after made for one long ass day.

  Adair chuckles. “You just think about it. The offer is on the table.” Then he holds out his hand. “I’ll take the wee guy for tonight. We’ll see how we do.”

  I try to smile as I hand over Gabriel’s leash, but it just splits into another yawn. “Thank you. Really. I don’t know what else I would have done with him, besides bring him home and…” That wouldn’t have gone over well at all.

  Adair waves me off, thankfully forgoing another jab at Clint. “It’s all good,” he says, bending down to clip the leash onto Gabriel’s collar. “You know, doll, you’re too nice for your own good. Someday you’re gonna have to learn to say ‘no’ to people.”

  I look down at Gabriel. He pads closer to Adair and sits before shooting me a look that makes my chest throb. “How could I have said no to that face, though?”

  Adair laughs, but it’s hollow. “You wouldn’t have said no even if your aunt handed you an aquarium full of tennis-ball sized tarantulas.”

  “No way. That would have been a definite no. Anyway, they were going to dump him at the shelter if I didn’t take him. Besides, you could say no.”

  “Never to you.”

  Like I said, I’m good at rebuffing, so I ignore him and instead bend down to give Gabriel a quick scratch under his chin. “I have a big bag of his food in the truck. And I’ll keep asking around, see if I can’t find someone else who might be looking for a pet.”

  “Just hold off on that for now,” Adair says. “Let’s see how this works out. I’ve been meaning to get a dog, actually. Haven’t had one since I’ve been here. Maybe it’ll give me a reason to settle down, you know?” He chuffs at his own joke while Gabriel yawns, unamused. “Just haven’t had the time to go out and find a beast yet. Things have been so busy around here…”

  I prop my hands on my hips and make a face. “See?”

  He just stares at me. Gabriel lays down, rolls over, and scratches his back against the old floorboards, his hips swaying back and forth, short legs kicking at the air.

  “That right there,” I say, palming my keys and pointing at him. “Haven’t had the time.” The funeral and everything along with it has made me edgy, and I feel prickly. “I knew you were too busy. I shouldn’t have even asked. You’re only doing this to be nice…” I shake my head and make a move toward him, about to ask for the leash back. I feel the shame of having just dumped my problems onto this man’s shoulders and my chest constricts with embarrassment.

  Adair holds up his hands, palms out and fingers looped around the leash. “I am busy. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have time for him. A person makes time for the things that are important to him, no matter how demanding his schedule is. Learned that the hard way,” he says, almost as an afterthought. He lifts a brow, daring me to argue. “So see, now? Don’t worry your head.”

  I’m mumbling, because I really don’t have an argument for that, when he reaches out, grabbing my hand that’s still dangling lamely in the air. But instead of putting the leash in it, he tugs me closer, holding me loosely against his chest for a beat before his arms tighten. I’m too shocked to say anything; though we joke, we’ve never been the touchy-feely sort of friends that hug.

  “I’m sorry about your day.”

  Not sorry about your grandmother. No. The beautiful, caring man is sorry about my day. My day spent with a family I feel no connection to while mourning a woman I hated. Sometimes you need to hear something so badly that when someone finally says it, the sentiment warms your insides the way a bowl of hot soup does when you’re chilled to the bone. And it’s sort of like a drug. Suddenly, you want more. And more. I can feel his words coursing through my system, my body loosening and turning to mush under his embrace. For the first time today, tears prick the backs of my eyes.

  I have no idea why. They’re not for my grandmother, that’s for damn sure.

  And Lord, does he feel good. I press my nose into his sweater and discreetly take in his smell—all while trying not to swoon, mind you. His scent is woodsy and aquatic, like one of those beachy rainforests out on the Olympic Peninsula that my parents and I visited once when I was a kid. The kind filled with old growth pines that butt up against the ocean and scrape the sky, their long limbs stirring the crisp air, making everything smell sweet and salty at the same time. I wish I belonged here, curled against his chest, his strong arms wrapped around me like we’re the only two people in the world. If I could, I’d nestle myself right into his body like a burr and stay there until my world righted itself.

  Ugh. Sounds super clingy, I know.

  But it’s all over too quickly, and when we part, nothing has changed. My world is still spinning wildly on its axis—so out of sync, it seems, with everyone else’s.

  So, I handle it the only way I know how: I paste a smile onto my face and move on.

  Fourth of July – 14 Years Old

  Taffy pulled a sucker—one of those blow pops that had a chunk of gum buried in the center—out of her pocket and peeled off the wrapper. She tossed it onto the porch and then, instead of sticking it in her mouth, she slid the red candy over her lips before slowly running her tongue up the side, like she was licking an ice cream cone or something.

  Or something.

  Brian watched her, his mouth hanging open like a gaping fish. Taffy stared right back, finally pushing the sucker in her mouth and pursing her lips around the stick before drawing it back out again with a soft pop.

  Josh tossed his head, his sweaty hair swinging with the movement. With his right hand, he dribbled the basketball; it smacked against the concrete sidewalk—once, twice, three times—the hollow ring tweaking my nerves and throwing the already wary butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy.

  This was the closest I’d ever been to
Josh Kramer—aside from that time back in the fifth grade when we stood next to each other during the All City spelling bee, right after Angela Franklin had misspelled perfunctory and exited her spot between us with a huff. Our close proximity lasted only minutes, with him fumbling the word liaison in the next round, but it was long enough that I felt the left side of my body burn from the closeness long after he’d left the stage. He was tall and skinny then, a beanpole with a mop of dark hair and piercing blue eyes that were almost too large for his narrow face. But it didn’t matter to me. There was something about him, something in the sharp arch of his brows, that made my pathetic heart stutter. He had filled out in the four years since that night, muscles taken on from time spent in the gym and on the basketball court where he learned to put his height to use. Though still on the lean side, his shoulders were broad, the kind that—I’d bet my new Tretorns on—could really fill out a tux. A current of excitement flickered through me at the thought that next month we’d (finally!) be in high school and could attend formal dances like homecoming and prom. Granted, I didn’t harbor any hope that Josh would chose me to hang on his arm during those functions, but a girl could dream.

  Dreams were usually better than reality, anyway.

  I hugged my book to my chest and tried to make myself as small as I could. I wasn’t like Taffy. Couldn’t use a flippin’ sucker (for crying out loud) to seduce a guy. Nor was I so bold as to take the initiative and wave them over. Which is exactly what she’d done after she found them staring at us just moments before. Brian didn’t miss a beat; he’d tossed the basketball to Josh so fast it might as well have been on fire before answering her call and hightailing it across the street. Josh had followed a few seconds later, bouncing the ball as he went, his gait almost reluctant, like he’d rather return to his hoop than chat it up with the neighbor girls.

  And I, for one, would have been more than hunky dory okay with that. I was perfectly fine admiring my crush from afar. I certainly didn’t need him here, standing at the foot of my grandmother’s porch, so close I could smell his sweat mixed with his mint-smelling deodorant.

  Josh jerked his chin my way. “What are you reading?”

  I didn’t answer right away. For a moment I wasn’t sure he was talking to me—I mean, our cliques at school were levels apart in the popularity department—and I wasn’t used to someone like him giving me the time of day. Not that I minded my social caste. I doubted my poor nerves could handle popularity and the stresses that went along with it. But when Brian and Taffy turned my way, and I realized I was the only other person around, I finally opened my mouth. “Firestarter.” I waved the book lamely in the air, showing him the cover before bringing it back to my chest. “Stephen King.”

  I held myself back from doing a fist pump.

  Josh bounced the basketball again, one corner of his mouth kicking up. “King’s cool.”

  Um, heck yeah, he is. But I didn’t say that. Just pressed my lips together in a smile that was supposed to look all cool and nonchalant but probably made me look like a frog.

  Taffy pulled the sucker from her mouth and smiled up at the guys, her lips stained candy apple red. “What are you guys doing for the Fourth?”

  Josh shrugged. “Probably head over to Grandview when it gets dark. Watch the fireworks from there.”

  Brian immediately launched into details about some party he’d heard about and was thinking of going to, and I could actually feel the excitement coming off Taffy in waves while he spoke. Josh strolled up and down the front walk, dribbling the ball, feigning a layup at each end. I pretended to study my nails—unpainted and uneven—but flicked my eyes up occasionally to study him. Gawd. This guy had the I’m-too-cool-to-care vibe down pat. At one point, he palmed the ball, gave it a little one-handed toss, and caught it on his finger, spinning it round and round with his other hand. I couldn’t skitter my eyes away quick enough when he caught me looking. He gave me a wide grin, and my face flared the color of a ripe tomato.

  I pressed my lips together and frog-smiled.

  Ignoring Brian and Taffy, he moved in front of my step, set his basketball on the ground, and dropped to a sit. Resting his forearms on his knees, he rolled back and forth. “You ever read any Koontz? Or Bradbury?” He squinted up at me, sharp eyebrows drawn and thick lashes throwing his light eyes into shadow.

  I nodded. “Richard Laymon’s pretty cool, too.”

  He bit his lip. I wanted to bite his lip. I mean, maybe I wanted to bite his lip? I knew nothing of lip biting or kissing or, heck, even hand holding. I was the type of girl that retreated to the Rollerama’s café when slow songs sounded over the speaks, ordering a malt cup or pickle or a Mr. Pibb so I wouldn’t have to bear the embarrassment of not being asked to couple skate. I’d never even kissed a guy, unless you counted the double-dare dry peck between me and Matt Donahue in the second grade. And believe me, no girl would count that.

  Josh pulled his lip from his teeth. “If you like horror, you should try Bentley Little. Have you heard of him?” I shook my head, making a mental note to search the bookstore high and low for the author the next time I was at the mall. Along with a book on flirting. Because obviously I was drowning here. “He doesn’t have a lot out yet, but I have his first book. You can borrow it.” He shrugged. “You know. If you want.”

  Um, yeah, I wanted to say. Duh. But I didn’t. Instead I just smiled back (showing my teeth this time) and said, “Yeah. That’d be cool.”

  And then he laughed, which made me laugh, and any traces of awkwardness between us evaporated into the hot July air.

  It was the calm before the storm.

  It’s been three days since my grandmother’s funeral, three days since I dropped Gabriel off with Adair, and three days since he made me that offer to move in with him.

  Rent free.

  Granted, I’m not so disillusioned as to think it would be entirely free—everything comes with a price. But as I adjust my ear buds and turn up the volume on my laptop, I can’t help but wonder if I’m an idiot for not accepting that offer on the spot.

  The noise from Clint’s video game still bleeds through, and I can barely hear my YouTube tutorial on Photoshop and liquifying. The instructor’s curser is flitting all over the screen, but I can’t make out what he’s saying over the manipulated roar of gunfire and bombs blaring from the surround sound speakers Clint hooked up when he moved in. I sink back into the couch cushions and frown. My boyfriend, if he can even be called that, is sitting on the floor, his back against the couch and forearms resting on his knees, the game controller snug in his grip and giving the animated characters on screen more attention in one hour than he’s given me the whole five months we’ve been dating.

  I hit pause. Shove my irritation down. “Clint?”

  He doesn’t respond, so I nudge his shoulder with my foot.

  “Yeah?” His blonde head barely turns my way. His thumbs are making more magic happen on that controller than they’ve ever made on me.

  “Would you mind turning that down, please? Just a little?”

  He sighs, makes a grumbling noise in the back of his throat, and thumbs the remote, taking the volume down one notch. One.

  “How’d the job hunting go today?”

  His shoulders lift, a slow rise and fall, the muscles in his back stretching the material of his white cotton t-shirt. “Not much out there right now. Mutha fucker!” He takes his hands off the controller long enough to flip the television the bird and take a swig from his can of beer.

  Clint was the manager of a local hardware store; he’d been working there for years. Unfortunately, the company went belly up shortly after we met, leaving him out of work and burning through his savings just to pay his rent. When he expressed concern that all of his hard-earned savings was going to the wayside, I felt sorry for him and offered to let him stay here until he found a job and could put in a few good weeks, earn a couple paychecks, and find his own place. He received a good severance package and uses his unempl
oyment to help kick in a tiny bit for rent, which does save me some money. But even so…

  Three months later, and he’s still here. Still unemployed.

  And I know how it looks. I know.

  I know, I know, I know.

  It’s like I’m trying to turn him, this situation, our relationship into something it’s never going to be. What is it they say about insanity? Something about doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?

  I sigh, shut my laptop, and slide from the couch. “I’ll just go to the bedroom.”

  Clint nods, taking a meaty palm off the controller long enough to slide it up my leg and squeeze. His skin is damp and sticky against my bare thigh. He curls his fingers and gives my boxer shorts a tug. “I’ll be in soon, babe.” He flashes me a look, eyebrows wiggling, lips curling into a suggestive smile.

  He’s handsome, there’s no denying it. Dark eyes under a perfect set of brows, the thickset arch just brooding enough to make him look deep but not moody. Golden locks kept short and tousled, with just a hint of curl. Skin that always looks tan, even in the midst of one of the dreariest Midwestern winters in the books. He has a football player’s build, although now, at thirty-two, his hard edges are starting to soften.

  I don’t mind. I mean, lord knows I’m not perfect. All my edges are soft.

  Clint likes to call me his body pillow.

  Little does he know that’s what I’m getting him for Christmas.

  I just smile down at him and tell him good-night. Chances are he’ll fall asleep on the couch while watching ESPN, bulky head flattening the Pottery Barn throw pillows I spent way too much on and will probably end up having to replace before they’re even a year old.

  My apartment, the ground floor unit in an old two-story craftsman, isn’t big, and once I’m settled in bed, covers tangled around my legs, I can still hear Clint’s video game through my ear buds. The only shining light in all this is that the upstairs tenant, old Mrs. Poppajohn, is spending the holidays with her son in Arizona, so she isn’t home to bang her cane against her floors because of the noise.