Somewhere Between Water and Sky (Shattered Things #2) (2 page)

Even though changing my hair color was one of the first things I did when I got here, it still startles me sometimes when I see it attached to me in mirrors or falling into view. I glance at my phone to check the time and position myself to look around the heads in front of me toward the traffic. I twist my lips. I may be late for work today. We pass the culprit for traffic
—
a movie set taking up two lanes of the road
—
and I crane my neck to see who may be working. Despite the magazines with all of the
“
they
’
re one of us!
”
photo montages, I
’
ve yet to see anyone noteworthy.

We turn the corner and I gather my bag to make a quick exit at the next stop. I
’
ll be running to make it on time, but I
’
ll make it. I glance at the man sitting next to me and sink back against the seat when I realize I
’
m going to have to talk to him again.

“
Um. Sir. I
’
m going to need off at this stop.
”

The bus slows down and the brakes squeal and the man just turns and smiles and shifts his feet
just so.

“
Sure thing
…”
He trails off as if waiting for me to share my name.

When I stare and refuse to move, he offers a broader smile and a low chuckle.
“
Don
’
t worry, pretty lady. It
’
s been a while since such a tight ass brushed up against an older man like me. I promise to behave.
”
He waves his eyebrows suggestively and I tilt my head and smile.

“
Gosh. Thanks.
”
I move to slip past him and at the last minute, swivel around and bring my knee into his groin. He puffs his cheeks out in pain and breathes out slowly and I pull my bags past him, making sure they all hit him on the way out. I catch his eye one more time.

“
I didn
’
t give you my name on purpose. You might want to learn how to pick up on some social cues if you want to remember what a
tight ass
feels like
…”

And then I turn around and rush off the bus and out on to the street only pausing long enough to hear
“
whore!
”
thrown out the window as the bus passes me. A voice echoes in my head and I breathe in quick.

You
’
re nothing but a whore. Whore. Whore. You
’
re nothing but a whore.

Only when the bus is out of view do I feel my insides shaking. It
’
s been weeks since I
’
ve heard his voice take over internally and I try and shake my head to erase the words.

It doesn
’
t work. It never does.

I take a few steadying breaths and continue down the street to the coffee shop where I
’
ve been working as a barista. These tremors will not help in making drinks tonight. I clench and unclench my fists and keep walking
—
keep moving
—
keep doing
something
because I know when I stop it won
’
t be pretty.

The thoughts can wait. I have a shift to cover and I need this job.

I
’
m close to saving up enough of my own money for a car. College will wait. I couldn
’
t risk following through with the USC acceptance and so I let the offer hang
—
I haven't even contacted the university because if I know Kevin and Jude like I think I do they
’
ll probably call and ask around for information surrounding a Stephanie Tiller who just enrolled. I
’
m not worried about turning down the acceptance
—
my mom
’
s money sits comfortably in a bank waiting for the right moment for me to pursue a degree. It
’
ll happen, just not right now.

My scars won
’
t dictate the story I live. They can
’
t. The second they do, all of my new beginnings will be lost.

Chapter Two

I get to work right as my shift starts and clock in before making a mad-dash for the espresso machine. I flip the switch on the grinder and close my eyes as I inhale the smell of delicious addiction. Grabbing the portafilter, I flick the doser and watch the grinds fill the cup.

Benefits of working at a coffee shop: free coffee while on the clock.

“
Hey Steph.
”

My hands jerk in surprise and I glance up and nod toward one of the coworkers resting on the wall outside the kitchen. Standing at least a foot above me, he absolutely towers over everything in the room. Judging by his gait and overall style I would assume he doesn't play any sports
—
definitely the artsy type. Longish hair, skinny jeans,
accessories.

“
You still don
’
t remember my name, do you?
”

I tie my apron around my waist and shake my head, blushing a little at the realization that he just caught me staring.
“
I don
’
t
—
sorry.
”

“
It
’
s Ren.
”

“…
Ren.
”

“
Short for Renfro, which was my grandfather
’
s middle name.
”
He bows at the waist, his hand extended toward me.
“
My family has a penchant for the dramatic.
”

I widen my eyes in recognition.
Ah. That
’
s right. Ren. The actor.

“
How was the audition? You were looking at a
…
pilot for a tv show? Right?
”

“
It was alright. I don
’
t think I
’
ll make the cut. But, chalk it up to experience
—
some shit like that.
”

I laugh despite myself and mutter under my breath.
“
Yeah. Some shit like that.
”

He rubs his fingers under his lips and crinkles his eyes.

I twist my cheek inward and look away, focusing on tamping the grounds evenly before they
’
re polished enough for the Astoria, our espresso machine. I call her Asti for short. She
’
s basically my best friend.

Why is he staring? This is awkward. Really awkward.

“
So are you in school?
”

I shake my head and reach for the button that signals a double shot. The machine whirs to life and I let it go quiet before I answer, trying to figure out how much to say. He doesn
’
t need to know everything. Hell. He doesn
’
t need to know
anything.
But the old Stephanie would hide. I don
’
t want to hide here. I look his way and twist the portafilter loose on the machine to empty the used grounds.

“
I got into USC but decided to take a break for a little while before taking classes.
”

He studies me and walks over to make his own drink. I maneuver away from him so he can have his space. He stares at me underneath the mop of hair that looks stylishly uncombed. He reaches out for the portafilter and I hand it to him with a towel to dry off the residual water.

“
A break to travel? Like a gap year?
”

I turn toward the low-boy and pull out a Topo Chico, popping the cap. Twisting back toward my cup, I drop two pumps of simple syrup and shake it around the ice before grabbing the bottle and filling it to the first line on the plastic cup. The water fizzes and tickles my nose. I take a slight step back and then pause, making sure not to bump into him as I finish prepping.

Downside to working at a coffee shop: everything is a finely tuned dance of moving, shifting, leaning and reaching with other humans in close proximity. Slight problem since I don
’
t dance. I turn around and lean against the counter, resting my hands behind me.

“
Gap year? Um. Sure. I guess.
”
I shoot him a glance.
“
I don
’
t really know what that is, but if it involves taking a break, then yes.
”

He laughs.

“
You
’
re intriguing, you know that, Stephanie?
”

I need to finish my coffee. I reach around him for my two shot glasses of freshly dropped espresso. I wrap my fingers around the shot glasses and then turn around to face my cup and pause before pouring it into my cup. I wrinkle my nose. Kevin used to tell me I was a mystery he loved solving.

“…
I
’
m intriguing? You just met me.
”

“
I just can
’
t figure you out. I have this sense, you know? I can normally spot people who aren
’
t genuine.
”
He taps my shoulder with his finger and I step away, gun shy by the sudden touch. He continues and I try to breathe through the quickening of my pulse. This isn
’
t the rushed pulse of excitement or terror
—
this is being found out. Known.

These are the moments his voice is loudest.

Whore.
The guy yelled out of the bus window.

Whore.
My dad would call me on days I didn
’
t bring in enough money.

Whore
was the look in Kevin
’
s eyes when he found me in the shed.

This is why I don
’
t do relationships.

I force myself to stand still and not run. I look him in the eyes and say nothing.

“
I can
’
t read you. Ever. I ask questions and you answer them, but there
’
s not any emotion behind the words. Like who turns down an acceptance from USC?
”

“
Are you saying I
’
m not genuine?
”

He looks me over and answers with another question.
“
What are you, like 18? Did you graduate early?
”

“
Do you always ask this many questions?
”

He
’
s not deterred. He steps toward me.
“
And your hair.
”
He glances at my roots.

Rude.

“
This isn
’
t your natural color.
”

He grabs a strand and I jerk my neck away from his touch. He smiles.

“
Do you mind?
”
I
’
m getting a little angry and a lot antsy at him pushing for answers.

“
You don
’
t like people touching you.
”

“
No shit, Sherlock.
”
I have no clue whether or not his questions are considered within social norms but I
’
m not used to it and they make me uncomfortable. I
’
m not used to this level of friendly intimacy between strangers. I feel my armor lock into place and my gaze steels.

“
I thought I already had my interview.
”

He raises an eyebrow and chuckles and then pauses to glance over my shoulder, our conversation momentarily forgotten. I notice the distraction and turn to follow his gaze as I stick a straw in my cup and take a sip.