Unafraid (Beachwood Bay) (3 page)

“I didn’t mean to surprise you,” Hunter’s brow furrows. “I figured after that show, you’d be up here celebrating. Not…”

He trails off, but I can fill in the blanks.

Not moping here, defeated. Not stuck, exactly the same as when he saw me last. Not hiding from the whispers and scorn like some scared little kid.

I lurch up. “I can’t…” I stutter. “It’s not…”

Hunter stares at me, confusion masking his chiseled, tanned face. He probably expected some witty banter, my usual tough barbs, but right now all my defenses are down and I feel like my chest is ripped wide open, heart beating bloody and raw for the whole world to see.

Why tonight? Why him, here, now of all nights?

“Brit?” Hunter moves towards me but I flinch away.

“No!” I stumble back. I can’t do this. Hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to face him again, but right now, every instinct in my body is screaming out to run.

“You shouldn’t be here.” I gasp. I turn, bolting for the door, but my foot catches on the gravel and I stumble, scraping my shin painfully against the jagged metal edge of the chair.

In an instant, Hunter crosses the distance between us to hold me up.

“Easy there,” he murmurs, holding onto my arm. A shock of sensation floods through my body at his touch, and despite everything, my heart leaps just to feel him next to me. He holds me to him, tight against the solid warmth of his body, and for a moment I’m caught there, lost in his eyes, in all the memories of the past.

But the past is done. It was over almost as soon as it began.

“Goodbye,” I manage, breaking free from his embrace. I hurry down the stairs, crashing through the bar hallway and out into the back parking lot. Garrett’s truck is parked right by the exit, and I know the keys will be up under the mirror. I scramble in, gunning it into drive and taking off, not stopping a moment, not until I’m a mile away, speeding down the dark streets, and Hunter is just a memory in the rearview mirror.

If only he could just stay that way.

I slam the steering wheel, my cheeks burning with humiliation. What’s he even doing back here? Hunter Covington, Ivy League prince, heir to a society fortune. He should be off playing tennis at the country club, or partying in Monte Carlo, or whatever it is that young, gorgeous men do when they have the world at their feet and a multi-million dollar trust fund burning a hole in their designer pockets.

He could be anywhere, doing anything, and instead, he’s back here in Beachwood?

I shake my head in determination. Just because he’s back doesn’t mean a thing. He’s probably just passing through, the way his family did every summer when I was growing up. The Covingtons had an old horse ranch out on the edge of town, and a fancy new mansion on the waterfront too. They would come for July with Hunter and his brother, Jace; bring their rich friends down too, dock their yachts and stroll around town, cooing over how ‘quaint’ and ‘rustic’ we all were.

That’s not fair
, a voice warns me.
Hunter wasn’t like that.

No, he wasn’t. I sigh, remembering him back then. I was fourteen, fifteen, too young to really care at first, but even I noticed that every year, he got more gorgeous: growing taller, his muscles filling out. The slim, athletic boy who first bounded around town like an eager puppy turned into a strapping young man, in front of all of our eyes. God, the girls in town would go crazy over him: flirting and giggling if he so much as looked in their direction. And with his older brother along, too…

They were the golden boys, alright.

Handsome. Charming. Wealthy.

Untouchable.

At least, until that night…

Don’t even think about it.
I tell myself, pulling the truck into the drive of the beach house. Whatever the reason he’s back in town, he’s still the boy who’ll inherit the whole world, and I’m still the girl with nothing.

Some things never change.

I wake at dawn to the memory of Hunter’s eyes, watching me on the roof. I’d never seen a blue like that before him, and I haven’t found it since. Maybe it’s the golden tan of his skin that makes them shine the way they do…

I stop that memory dead in its tracks and leap out of bed. There’s a restlessness stirring in my veins, and I know I can’t just stick around town—especially not with the thought of Hunter waiting for me around every corner. I’m not due at the bar until the evening shift, which gives me the whole day to myself.

I quickly shower and throw on a denim miniskirt and one of my favorite shirts. I made it myself, taking a bright neon printed scarf and sewing it over on itself to make a handkerchief top. I fasten it in a halter-neck with a thin leather cord, pull on my ankle boots, and head downstairs. I want to get on the road right away, but I force myself to take a beat and circle the house, checking the windows, and watering the plants out on the back porch. It’s the least I can do, since I’m house-sitting, rent-free, for my brother, Emerson, and his fiancée. I couldn’t understand it, when he said he got it for her; I mean, who buys a place right before they move to the city? But they wanted to keep it in Juliet’s family, and I can’t complain, I know. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be crashing on the couch up in Garrett’s tiny apartment, or stuck in a tiny studio somewhere in town. My big brother, always the one looking out for me.

I’m lucky. He’s all I’ve got. Dad left when I was barely four years old, and Mom bounced on and off the wagon for years. Booze, pills, and fucked up men—you name a ticket to self-destruction, and Dawn Ray would give it a try. Us kids watched her fall apart, and there was nothing we could do, like seeing a slow-motion car-crash on the road ahead and you can’t find a way to swerve in time.

In the end, it was a twisted relief when she left us for good, the summer I turned fifteen. My heart broke that she could walk away from me, but at least I didn’t have to spend every waking moment fighting the fear and uncertainty that cloaked my life. No more wondering if she’d come home or not at night, or if I was going to walk in the front door to find her passed out, coming down off another Oxy high.

She was just gone.

I shake off the shadows. It must be seeing Hunter again that’s got me drifting down memory lane, but I’m not getting caught up in my same old disappointments, not today. Everything’s safe and locked tight, so I finally grab a Pop-Tart and hit the road, but I’m barely past the county line when my cell rings. Garrett.

“You took my truck.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” I cringe. “There wasn’t time to leave a note.”

“Are you planning on bringing it back anytime soon?” Garrett doesn’t sound pissed, just amused.

“I’ll drive it back for my shift tonight, I promise.”

He laughs. “That means, not today.”

“I’m already halfway to the city.” I admit. “I really am sorry, I just had to get out of town for a while.”

Garrett’s voice softens. “If it helps, that asshole is barred for life. And if you want me to go sort him out…”

“It’s OK,” I sigh. “He’s not worth it. No use in you getting all beat up over nothing.”

“Are you saying I can’t take him?” Garrett sounds outraged.

I grin. “Fine, it’s not worth you getting an assault charge for nothing. You know he’d just run straight to the sheriff anyways.” I feel a shiver of disgust for Trey, and all his slimy, lying, cheating ways.

“I mean it, Brit, you just say the word.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Sure I do.” Garrett says quietly. “You’re family.”

I feel a warmth in my chest. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Trey wasn’t even the half of it…”

I stop, but Garrett picks up on the change in my voice and demands.”What happened?”

“Nothing. I’ll tell you tonight,” I sigh. When I’ve had a whole day to pick apart the humiliating experience in my mind. “Anyway, thanks for the truck. I’ll see you later.”

“Drive safe.” Garrett rings off.

I turn onto the interstate, using one hand to flip through the mix CDs in the dashboard until I find a rock mix from the last time I borrowed the car. I slip it in the player, turning up the Paramore track and letting the miles drift by, cool breeze whipping around my bare shoulders, a new chill to the usual sweltering temperatures.

Summer’s almost done, I realize with a pang of regret. September will be here soon, and Beachwood Bay will shut down for another year – our temporary inhabitants heading back to their lives, kids going off to college in the fall, tourist stores shuttering for winter. The buzz of weekend beach parties and festivals at the harbor will fade, my tips at Jimmy’s dwindling until it’s just the locals in on a Friday night for beers and burgers.

And I’ll still be there. Another year older, and no closer to my dreams. Not if the stack of rejection letters have anything to say about it.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy, making something of myself. I’ve thought about getting out of town like Ray Jay and Emerson, starting fresh somewhere, but I’ve always felt trapped, caught suspended between the safety of Beachwood Bay and the unknown of the world out there. I may have a reputation here, but I know how to get by; I have a place, even if it is as the town bad girl. At least this way, I get to cling onto the hope that life outside will be different, something better. But what happens if I actually make the move—pack up and move on, only to find that it’s exactly the same?

Same whispers, same judgment. Same me.

Not that I have to worry about that anytime soon, I remind myself. Not until I find a job, or some plan beyond waiting tables for a living. As the city rears up in the distance, sunlight glinting off the tall buildings, I feel the same rush of possibility I always do leaving Beachwood Bay behind. I grip the steering wheel with determination, merging into the traffic downtown. I don’t know how I’ll make it, but I will, one day. This will be my life, not just for the afternoon, but for good.

And until then… Well, I have the day to myself, far away from the disappointment of my life, and I’m going to make the most of it.

My first stop is the same place as always: a nondescript warehouse building on the edge of the college district that houses my favorite place in the whole entire world: Emilia’s. There’s no sign, or website, but that’s what everyone calls it: a vast fabric warehouse ruled over by the eagle eyes of Emilia herself, a fearsome old Russian woman with tiny gold-rimmed spectacles and the best taste in materials I’ve ever seen.

“Brit-Brit,” she pounces on me the minute I walk in. She clutches my arms with her wizened hands and lands a kiss on both my cheeks. “You so skinny now, you need to eat. Men like meat on their bones!” She bursts into laughter, shooting a glance over at her long-suffering husband, Henri, who sits—as always—silent in the corner, laboriously pouring over the books.

“I’m fine!” I protest. “Believe me, you should see me put away a burger, you don’t need to worry.”

“Hmm,” Emilia squints at me, unconvinced. “How did the skirt turn out? It was like I said with the hem stitching, no?”

“You were right,” I admit. “The fabric didn’t take. I had to do it by hand.”

“I told you.” She glances past me at a group of fashion students manhandling some velvets. “No!” She calls. “Hands back! Shoo!” she turns back to me with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, “The new class, ay ay ay. They put their sticky fingers over everything.”

“I’ll just browse.” I grin. “And look,” I show her my palms. “Spotless.”

“Of course you know,” she beams.

I leave her snapping at the students, and drift down the main aisle. All around me, reams of fabric are stacked fifteen feet high, samples draped enticingly in swathes of silky satin and stiff, architectural canvas.

It’s heaven. I can browse here for hours, lost in the possibility of this swatch of fabric, or that print, imagining what I could transform them into given a few days—and an unlimited budget. A cute, funky club dress, or an elegant, sweeping skirt? A tough denim vest, or a wild patterned shirt? Under this roof, anything is possible.

I got bit by the fashion bug early as a kid, as much out of necessity as anything. There wasn’t any money for new clothes, so my mom would raid the Goodwill in the next town, and beg black trash bags of castoffs from her friends’ kids. Looking back, it sounds tough, but the days she came home with a fresh haul were like Christmas to me. I’d tear through the piles, excitedly pulling out an old sweater or some embellished shirt—I knew that on their own, they looked way out of date, but if I chopped off those sleeves, and fixed those rhinestones to that collar…