For You (5 page)

“As you heard my uncle say, I don't have a sense of humor.”

He clapped his hand to his forehead. “That's why you look so familiar. You're Bruce's niece. I couldn't figure out why you looked so much like someone I had ...” He held two hands over his heart. “Such warm feelings about. Your uncle's a cool guy. Decent.”

“He is. So much decency in one person is refreshing.”

Sawyer frowned and turned in his chair so his body was squarely facing mine. My eyes traveled down his shirt and below his belt, to where his jeans wrinkled and creased over a good-sized package. I jerked my gaze away, a flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck.

“The way you say his decency is refreshing, you make me wonder,” he said, his voice still low and gritty, pushing up under my skin. “Do you usually assume people are rotten until they prove otherwise?”

“Some people trust their first impressions. I'm not one of those people.”

“Tell me your first impression of me.”

My first impression had been…
dangerously cute
. And his beautiful moss-green eyes had made me want to confess and confide in him. That was the truth, but I sure as hell wasn't spilling my guts.

“Messy tattoos,” I said. “Because of the coloring job your nephew had done. That's all I remember. Just a guy with brown hair and messed-up tattoos. You weren't drunk or complaining, so I thought you were okay.”

“How about now?”

“Kinda pushy.”

“You could walk away any time this gets too intense.”

I scratched my neck. “I dunno. Talking to people helps pass the time.”

“You were a gutted, wallowing candle.”

“What?”

“That was my first impression of you, Aubrey. A wick drowning in melted wax, your flame in danger. Just one more gust of wind and you'd be lost. You'd become that lost girl, sad through and through.”

The way he spoke of me sent a chill through my body. Also, the way he was looking at me. Head tilting to one side, his gaze traveled slowly from my feet, up to my knees. I wore black stretch jeans, but felt naked.

He continued, “You might not trust your first impression of people, but I do. You look like someone who would make a good friend, but isn't able to recognize one. You treat everyone equally, but you shouldn't. You want to believe people can change, because it means you might be able to change. And if someone asked you what one thing you would do differently in your life if you had it to live all over again, you'd say everything.”

“Sounds like you have me all figured out.”

He shook his head and laughed. “Sorry. That's all bullshit. Horoscope-quality bullshit. I think I have this thing, where I like the sound of my voice, and I just keep going. Long story, but I thought I had a career in that, but then I didn't.” The light danced in his eyes as he grinned up at me. “Try me again after a beer. I'll give you the full horoscope and your lucky lottery numbers as well.”

“Of course.”

I turned around and walked back to the bar, the heavy sensation of being watched all over me.

When I returned to his table and set down the pint, he was studying the image on his phone again.

“You need one big thing,” I said, pointing to a spot to the right and below the center of the image. “Everything's really busy, and that's good, but my eyes keep traveling to here, expecting something.”

“This is the focal point, though.” He tapped and zoomed in on the upper left. “See, this blossom is the focus. The dominant motif.”

“No. You start there, but your start isn't where you end up.”

He chuckled. “
Your start isn't where you end up.
See, you're helping me already, and all I had to do was hit on you repeatedly.”

“Hit on me? I thought you were just being friendly to the married girl.”

“What's it like? Being married?”

I winced. “Stable.”

“Is he good to you? He doesn't pick you up from work. If you were my girl I'd be down here all the time, beating guys like me away with a stick.”

“He's not the violent type.”

“Oh, and I am? Just because I can move and stop some dirtbag from hurting a girl, that doesn't mean I'm violent. It means I know right from wrong and I'm not afraid to act on my instincts.”

“But you didn't have to punch him in the face.”

Sawyer raised his eyebrows, his sparkling green eyes showing amusement. “You're the one who had murder on your face. You would have buried the eight-ball in that guy's eye socket.”

I shuddered at the memory and rubbed my arms. Bruce had installed the mirror in the corner, and we were all on alert to be more careful, but I didn't like to think about what happened.

My voice soft as a whisper, I said, “Defending yourself is okay.”

“It certainly is. You have to fight, or you won't believe you're worth fighting for. Now tell me more about this husband of yours.”

I looked around the bar for some reprieve, but there was nothing to save me on the giant TV screens or in the neon beer brand advertisements.

“He hasn't been around much lately,” I said.

A thunderous crack startled me, and I whipped my head to see some of the old-timer regulars starting a game of pool. Looking at the green felt lit up under the low-hanging lamp made my blood feel chilled, like ice water.

“Let me help you,” he said. “We can be friends. You help me with this giant albatross of an art project, and we can play a few games of pool. Low pressure.” He took a sip of beer, never moving his eyes off me. “Let's be friends.”

“I don't know.”

“Is it because I talk too much? I could try to talk less, but it helps me let off steam. It's good to use your words instead of your fists to communicate. I think real men talk.”

Some new patrons took a seat nearby, so I began to back away.

“You do have a nice voice,” I said, then I turned and quickly walked away.

For the rest of the afternoon, we talked a little more each time I came by to check on Sawyer Jones. He kept working on ideas for the mural, doing quick sketches in his book. As he'd done the previous visits, he drank only two pints of beer, sipped very slowly as he worked. After the second one, he requested a water. As I set the water glass down, he said, “I'm just off to the boy's room. Would you keep an eye on my laptop?”

I was confused for a moment, then realized he'd sketched the image of an open laptop inside two pages of the book. Both the drawing and his joke were cute.

He clapped his hands together and hooted. “Did it! Made you smile.”

I covered my mouth with my hand, embarrassed. Everyone in the area had turned to stare.

He was still chuckling as he disappeared around the corner to the washrooms.

I stood there for a moment, “guarding” the drawing of the laptop until I realized what I was doing. Shaking my head, still smiling, I walked away from the sketched laptop.

Lana had just shown up to start her shift, and I went to greet her over by the cupboard where we stowed away our purses.

“You look great today,” she said.

“You too.”

She smoothed down her brightly-dyed purple hair. “No I don't. I look like shit. I barely put on half my face, because Curtis wanted to make love.” She rolled her eyes.

“Oh.”

She poured two shots of something—vodka—and nodded down at the second one as she picked up the first.

“It's Wednesday, so happy humpday,” she said.

I picked up my shot and held it up to clink with hers.

Grinning, she said, “Shit it!” and tossed back her drink.

Shit it was a Lana-ism I'd recently learned about. She had no problem the F-word, so it was an odd substitute, but it suited her.

“Shit it,” I said, tossing back my shot of vodka.

We chased these shots with another set for good measure. It was Wednesday, after all.

With the drinks in my system, plus no more pain from my tooth, I was light-headed and free. Giddy.

I wasn't watching where I was going. On one pass back to the sink, Lana and I bumped into each other spectacularly, and she folded over in a fit of giggles.

“Don't you love that feeling?” she said between gasps.

“What feeling? Bruising? Not really.” I was rubbing my hip, where I already had a bruise from the ice machine's unforgiving corner.

“When your arms get heavy,” she said.

“I'm not that drunk, just buzzed.”

She laughed hard and flopped forward like a rag doll. “No, I mean when you laugh so hard your shoulders slump, like you can't bear the weight of your own arms. And then you get that sharp pain behind your ears.”

“From laughing?”

She stood up and grabbed me by the shoulders. I was getting used to the constant body contact from Lana, so I didn't pull away.

She leaned in until the top of her forehead was touching mine and we were eye to eye. “You need to get laid,” she said.

I humored her with a nod as I pulled my forehead off hers. “Yep.”

She shook me by the shoulders like I was her play toy. We were standing just inside the room I thought of as a kitchen, but was actually just a dishwashing station and storage for some of the mixes that didn't fit behind the bar.

She said, “You take off that pretend ring and get yourself a real man. You tell him to put his head between your legs and don't come up 'til you're howling his name loud enough to get all the dogs in the neighborhood barking.”

“Nice.”

She released me from her grip. “You're in the good part of your life right now. Don't you feel it? I bet you get wet just thinkin' about kissing a guy. I bet you come in five minutes flat. What do you think about Mr. Tattoos out there. He's always makin' googly eyes at ya.”

“Sawyer? He's interesting, and I guess he's cute, but I've got Bell to take care of. I can't have a relationship.”

She snorted. “Who said anything about a relationship? Listen, there's nobody home at my place right now. My son's staying at a friend's tonight, and Curtis is working a double shift. Why don't you use my spare key and take that big hunk of man back to my place? Just one night, to shake you loose.”

As I demurred, politely, I couldn't remember how much Lana knew, and what lies I'd told to whom. She knew I wasn't married, but did she know Bell was my sister, not my daughter? I wished I'd made some notes, or at least told everyone the same thing.

“Look at ya! You're quivering with anticipation,” she said, shaking me some more.

“Lana! You're gonna make me barf.”

She stopped shaking me and just gave me a stare so ridiculous and serious, I had to laugh.

“I see a smile,” she said. “Smilin' gets a lot easier when you're getting some.”

I thanked her as graciously as I could, then backed out through the swinging door, into the dim environment of the bar, where I wasn't so visible.

The place was filling up with the post-supper crowd, and the music had gotten louder.

Sawyer wasn't at his table, but leaning with one elbow on the bar. His back was to me, and he was talking to Bruce. I drank in the full length of him, from his muscular calves, to his butt, and his broad, solid shoulders. He wasn't a huge, bulky guy, but he looked strong, and solid.

The suggestions Lana had made were swirling around my head, sending heat between my legs.

Sawyer turned his head slowly, like he could sense me standing there, checking him out.

His green eyes crinkled at the corner as he gave me a smile.

Bruce waved me over. “Aubrey! You didn't tell me Sawyer offered to show you some tips at pool. You're going to take him up on it, I hope.”

I shrugged my shoulders back as I stuck my hands in my pockets self-consciously.

Lana snuck up behind me and pinched the back of my arm.

Before she could open her mouth and embarrass me, I said, “You bet I am. He needs a fresh set of eyes on something he's working on, and we're going to trade.”

Sawyer raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were blowing me off. But you're in?”

“I'm in.”

Bruce said, “We're not too busy, so how about you knock off early? Right about now?”

A pulse of terror shot through me, but at least it was sobering. Right now?

Bruce rummaged around and grabbed my purse, plopping it on the bar's counter. “Free to go.”

My grandmother would be picking Bell up from school, expecting me to be working late. I was free to go, but did I
want
to go?

Sawyer was already saying goodbye to Bruce, and then I was following him out the door, into the bright sun. Right. It was still daytime.

I sneezed, twice.

“You won't sneeze if you shut one eye,” Sawyer said, squinting at the sky. “Nature's sunglasses.”

I closed one eye and sneezed a third time.

“Takes practice,” he said.

“Doesn't everything.” I pulled my sunglasses from my purse and put them on.

Sawyer leaned over and peered into my purse, which was full of stuff like granola bars, suckers, and loose napkins.

“That's a mom-sized purse,” he said, then, “Ooh, suckers! Can I have one?”

I clutched the purse closed against my stomach. “Not cool.”

Unfazed, he chuckled. “Fine, I didn't really want a sucker.”

We stopped next to a big motorcycle, and he handed me a shiny black helmet.

“No way,” I said. “Nu-uh.”

“I had two glasses of beer over four hours. I assure you, I'm as sober as when I got up this morning.” He rubbed his chin, which had some dark stubble from not having shaved for a couple days. “Nope, I think I'm more sober than I was this morning.”

“I don't ride on motorcycles.”

“Not even one as sweet as this?”

The bike was gleaming in the afternoon sun like a physical manifestation of pride and joy. The tank was black on top, with a gold-colored stripe that had the Harley Davidson logo stretched along it, the words almost unrecognizable until you got close. The bottom of the tank was gray, with some darker spikes that looked like a tribal-style tattoo. The black seat was scooped down at the front and higher in the back, where the passenger sat. All the chrome along the engine and the exhaust pipes was clean and shined brighter than most people's jewelry. Two rear-view mirrors, also polished to a dazzling shine, rose above the bike's handles, on either side of a curved windscreen.