How To Save A Life (14 page)

"No." He smiles that million-dollar smile, and I huff a breath of relief.
Thank eff.
"But whenever you're ready, I'd love it."

"Thanks," I say, and I wonder if he knows that I've never played in front of an audience before, or if he just senses that I'm freaking the hell out about even working in the bar, let alone performing for money. Either way, I'm grateful. "See ya tonight."

I turn on my heel, but just as I take a step he calls my name once more. "Lia?"

I pause. "Yeah?"

"You did get your RSA, didn't you?"

Crap. What with Mum and the doctors and her newfound progress, as well as her nightmare, I completely forgot. I close my eyes. What's one more lie to add to the list?

"Sure did," I say, and with that I head out the door and fly down the ramp and to my car, the rain pelting like whips on my back. I don't shake it off, though, but relish it, embrace the pain for what it is. It's a penance for what I've just done, the lie I've just told.

If only that was the only sin I'd committed in the last year and a half.

I'm going to hell.

And nothing will save me now.

The
house looms before me, a dark wooden structure with cream paint flaking away at the corners. I pull up in the drive next to Smith's car, and my hand tightens around the stick as I put it in park.

The clouds overhead play tricks on the windows, mirroring the outside world back at me when all I want to know is what is happening inside. What is going on behind that glass veneer.

Steeling myself against the rain, I fling open the car door and bolt inside, twisting the handle and cursing when I find it locked as the rain continues its assault on my back. Finally, I fling it open, and straight away wish I hadn't.

On the couch are Mum and Smith, kissing, her legs over his lap, his arms cradling her, making her look even smaller than she really is.

I hate my father. I in no way want him back in our lives, but this? I don't know that I'm ready to see another guy mauling my parental in front of me, especially when so much about her is so very breakable right now.

I debate turning around and leaving, but my hair is soaked, and I need a shower and to change my clothes before I start my first shift, so I push the door all the way open and walk through. They don't pause in their make-out session, even though they have to have heard the onslaught of wind and rain when I opened the door and slammed it behind me.

"Hi," I say loudly, but nothing. No response. It's as if they're in their own weird tongue-wrestling, tonsil-searching universe.

I shudder and kick off my soaked shoes then walk upstairs. Goosebumps line my arms, and I rub against them furiously in an attempt to get warm again, but this kind of cold goes straight to your bones.

"Oh, Smith," Mum moans, and I clench my jaw tightly. It may not be what I want, but no empty glasses litter the table, and I take solace in the hope that she’s not drinking. Or doing anything else.

Another benefit of them being so involved in Pash-On Land is that they don't notice I'm not in my school uniform, and that Mum doesn't ask why I haven't gone straight to practise, since school would be out by now.

The thought causes a slight sting as I realise that working on a Friday night is going to cut into my practise time. Not by much—I can still head to the hall straight after school and get in a sold hour and a half—but at this stage in the game, every minute counts.

“Just letting you know I won’t be home till around one tonight,” I say loudly, walking up the stairs. “So don’t wait up.”

Huh.
No response.

I traipse into my room, mentally running through the songs I’m playing in my application. I have them mostly down pat, which just means I need to keep up the good grades and stay out of trouble.

The thought only hits me as I catalogue it. I took this stupid job to get out of a potential criminal record, but can you get in trouble for being underage in a bar? I gulp and swallow down the sour taste that's risen to my mouth. I'm sure the answer will be yes, but it's no doubt a lesser crime than theft. If something should happen, I could escape out the back door. And besides, I haven't been caught for that.

Yet.

I strip off my shirt and wrestle with my jeans, peeling them down my legs and hanging them over the back of a chair to dry. My stomach growls, reminding me that it's desperate for food, and because I can't decide which is more urgent, being warm or being fed, I grab the sandwich I packed and put in my bag before 'school' this morning and take a huge bite, then I wrap my towel around myself, ready to make the run across the hall and into the bathroom.

My hand on the bathroom door, I push it open, but not before I hear the moans and groans and
oh my God total SEX sounds
coming from downstairs. I throw myself into the bathroom and slam the door shut, flinging the shower faucets on full ball to drown out the hideous, hideous sound of my mother having
sex
. Because, no. Gross.

My towel falls to the floor and I study my egg and tomato sandwich, which has suddenly lost its appeal. As I turn to throw it in the bathroom bin before hopping in the shower, I catch sight of my near-naked body, and I freeze.

Seeing it makes it so much more real.

It's why I never face the mirror in the bathroom.

I spin back around in an instant, remove my underwear and bra, and let the hot water warm my skin and the steam blur out the mirror.

Some scars hurt too much to see.

***

The doors open promptly at six, and at first, the five of us kind of stand around, doing nothing, but soon enough a few people filter in. Apparently, Jase didn't invite anyone, just told locals he ran into around town, as he wanted to make sure we were operating full steam before doing a 'launch'.

Old swing music softly pulses through the speakers, and soon the percussion of ice, shaking and stirring is added to the tunes as people order drinks.

I'm weirdly nervous for Jase, and I watch as he rushes about, making sure people are getting their drinks, receiving their bar snacks and generally having a good time. His shoulders are tensed, and he's always moving, his gaze constantly flicking around the room.

Jase, Hope, Kyle and I fall into a smooth routine, and at our peak, thirty-odd customers are in the bar. I'm in the kitchen washing glasses, then polishing them and stacking them back out front for the boys to use. I feel safe there, like I'm doing the least amount of illegal activity I possibly can while being in a venue underage. Hope's running to and from tables collecting orders, a hospitality-plus smile plastered across her face, and Kyle and Jase are making the drinks. We're like a well-oiled machine.

And then there's Soraya.

Soraya kind of struts around, stopping at tables where men are sitting, sometimes leaning in toward them, her generous rack resting on the wooden table tops, and occasionally coyly-my-arse playing with her hair. I think I saw her take a drink to a guy once, and I know she took the bill for a few people back up to the counter—minus the tip I saw her pocket. She'd check the team out front weren't watching before she'd do it, but perhaps I was as invisible to her as I felt there in my little kitchen hole. Maybe I just wasn't important enough to be on her radar.

The night ticked on, and I had to blink my tired eyes awake. It seemed everyone was feeling the effects of our first full night of trading, our movements getting slower, sluggish. It was half past twelve when Jase finally closed the door and slumped onto the table nearest it. "We did it!"

"Yiew!" Kyle calls from behind the bar, grabbing a few different bottles and some glasses, suddenly full of energy.

"That better be the sound of staff drinks I hear," Jase mumbles from under his arms, and Kyle confirms that they are indeed staff drinks he's making.

I circle the room once more, putting the last glasses in the dishwasher, then tentatively tap Jase on the shoulder, unsure what I should do next. "Do you need me to ... mop?"

"No." His head jerks up, his expression serious, and he places his hands either side of my arms. The touch sends heat shooting through me like a bullet. "I need you to have a goddamn staffie."

“What’s a …?”

“A staffie?” Jase cocks his head to the side. “Staff drinks.”

“Oh.” I smile, and he pulls me close to his chest in a hug, and my heart stops. Wow. Because up close, he smells so good, and his arms around me sends currents of electricity through my body. It’s thrilling and dangerous all at once. It makes me feel fragile and small but also like I could take a risk. Like I could take a chance, and fight against the odds.

Somehow he gives all that to me and more in the space of a second, but just as suddenly, it's over and I'm standing there, blinking, his face mere inches from my own in the soft light of the room. His eyes are trained on mine, and it's as if no one else in the bar exists, just him, and me, and—

"Come on, Jase."

And Soraya, who now has her arm draped around his waist, leading him to the bar.

I follow Soraya and Jase up the bar where Kyle is pouring the last of the five empty glasses full with some caramel concoction.

Jase raises the one nearest him and cheers. "To Class."

"To Class," we all repeat and chink glasses, careful to make eye contact with each other person as we do.

"My feet are killing me." Soraya slumps onto a seat and unbuttons the top button of her shirt. Or, more appropriately, the third button, being the highest one that's actually done up. You can now see the sides of her lacy hot-pink bra from almost every angle.

"Ironic," Hope mutters softly to me as Kyle, Jase and Soraya start debating the merits of whiskey versus rye.

"What?" I ask, just as quietly.

"That she's working at a bar called Class when she has none."

I spit my drink out over the countertop, and Kyle crows then mops the spillage up as I clasp my hand to my mouth. "Sorry, sorry," I apologise, giggles escaping my lips.

The three others go back to their discussion, Soraya arching a disdainful eyebrow in my direction first, and I turn my attention back to Hope.

"So you've worked in a bar before, right?" I ask.

"Yeah, over in Sandy Cove. It was a more commercial pub kinda thing, though. I barely made any cocktails."

Two words.

Sandy Cove.

"What uh, school did you go to?" I ask, taking a huge sip of the beverage in front of me. It burns its way down my throat and I try my hardest not to wince too visibly as it goes through my body.

"Just Sandy Bay High. Why? You?" she asks, leaning closer. "Actually, do we know each other? You look really familiar."

There are times I hate living in a small community.

Now is a prime example of that time.

Because most people in our area know me, or if they don't, they know of me.

"Nope." I shake my head and turn back to my drink. I take another huge sip. It doesn't hurt as much this time around. "I'm an Emerald Cove girl."

"Yeah?" She narrows her eyes, and blood rushes from my face.
Crap
.
No, no, no!

"Mmhmm." I shake it off like one of the ibises that dip so often in the lake, and hope like hell that she doesn't pursue the line of questioning further.

Thankfully, she doesn't, and we go back to drinking and chatting again. I discover that she's at uni, studying to be a doctor, and manage to dodge my way around her questions of what I've been doing with my life by referencing The View cafe and my impending scholarship application. Avoiding the truth comes easily, too easily—and even easier the more that delicious warm liquid slips down my throat.

"What about a guy? You got a boyfriend?" she asks, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm telling her all about Duke, and Kat, and my now solo life.

"Shots over here, please!" Hope clicks her fingers, and Kyle brings over a bottle of tequila, then pours it into two glasses that magically appear from beneath the counter, complete with lime to the side.

"To dickhead men, and loose women." Hope shoots a glance at Soraya, and I chink my glass with hers, the tequila spilling down the side and over my fingers. I knock what's left back and lick my hand, scooping up the remaining liquor, then sucking on that lime to try and acid the taste away. But nothing stops that feeling of bile lurching in my stomach, trying to climb up my throat.

"That's horrid." I make a face.

"That's life." Hope shrugs, and takes the bottle Kyle left out and pours us another round.

Shots and cocktail refills come thick and fast, and before I know it it's two in the morning, and Hope is yawning, her hand over her mouth.

"I gotta go," she says through yet another yawn.

"But you're awesome." I lean in for a hug, and she laughs and pats me on the back.

"I think maybe you've had a little too much to drink."

"No." I cross my arms over my chest. "I has not!"

Okay ... maybe a
little
too much.

"Night, guys," Hope calls and gives a wave to the room.

"I better go too," Kyle says, ducking into the kitchen and grabbing his jacket. "She shouldn't walk back alone."

"Guess that leaves the two of us," Soraya purrs, her hands on Jase's shirt collar.

"And Lia." He nods pointedly toward me, over her shoulder.

She flicks her head back, her ponytail whipping around. "Yes," she finally agrees after giving me the once-over. "And Lia."

"I can go ..." I hold my hands up in self-defence. "Although don't you want someone to mop, Jason?"

"Jason?" He smiles, standing and stepping out so he's in between Soraya and I.

"I'm presuming Jase is short for Jason." I furrow my brow.

"You presumed right," he says, and I smile in victory. I'm right!

"That's hot," Soraya breathes, and I snort at how stupid she sounds. Soraya turns to give me a malice-filled glare. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry," I say, pressing my lips together. "I was ... thinking of something someone did before."
Because what's one more lie when you've already told them all?