2
1050 Words
I smile at the mental image of her ogling a guy at the grocery store. That situation is usually the other way around. The yoga classes she teaches are always filled with hopeful single men.
“Epic scruff. I’d like to see that.”
“It’s like five-o’-clock shadow on steroids. He had this kind of piratey air. Is that a word? Anyway, he had that dangerous outlaw vibe going on. Total hottie. Rawr.”
“Hottie, huh? Doesn’t sound like anyone local. Must be a tourist.”
Sloane groans. “I should’ve asked him if he needed someone to show him the sights!”
I laugh. “The sights? Is that what you’re calling your boobs now?”
“Don’t hate. There’s a reason they’re called assets. The girls have gotten me plenty of free drinks, you know.” She pauses for a moment. “Speaking of which, let’s go to Downrigger’s tonight.”
“Can’t, sorry. I have plans.”
“Tch. I know what your plans are. It’s time to change things up. Make a new tradition.”
“Go out to get drunk instead of staying in?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll pass. Puking in public isn’t a good look for me.”
She scoffs. “I know for a fact you’ve never puked in your life. You have zero gag reflex.”
“That’s a very strange thing to know about me.”
“There are no secrets here, babe. We’ve been best friends since before we had pubes.”
I say drily, “How touching. I can see the Hallmark card now.”
She ignores me. “Also, I’m buying. That should appeal to your inner Scrooge.”
“Are you trying to tell me I’m cheap?”
“Exhibit A: you regifted me a twenty-dollar Outback Steakhouse gift certificate for Christmas last year.”
“That was a joke!”
“Hmm.” She’s unconvinced.
“You’re supposed to regift it to someone else, I’ve told you that. It’s a thing. It’s funny.”
“Yes, if your frontal lobe was damaged in a terrible car accident, it’s funny. For the rest of us with functioning brains, it’s not.”
My sigh is big and dramatic. “Fine. This year, I’ll buy you a cashmere sweater. Satisfied?”
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
“No. I’m not going out tonight.”
She says firmly, “I’m not letting you sit at home for another anniversary of your rehearsal dinner that never was, getting wasted on the champagne you were supposed to have at your wedding reception.”
She leaves the rest unsaid, but it hangs heavily in the air between us anyway.
Today marks five years since David went missing.
Once a person has been missing for five years in the state of California, they’re considered legally dead. Even if they’re still out there somewhere, for all intents and purposes, they’re six feet underground.
It’s a milestone I’ve been dreading.
I turn away from the window and its pretty, sunny scene.
For a moment, I think of Chris. I remember the bitterness in his voice when he said I’m living in the past…and how everyone knows it.
Everyone including me.
I say softly, “Okay. Pick me up in fifteen.”
Sloane whoops in excitement.
I hang up before I can change my mind and go change into a skirt.
If I’m going to get drunk in public, at least I’m going to look good doing it.
Downrigger’s is a casual place right on the lake, with a wraparound deck and spectacular views of the Sierras on one side and Lake Tahoe on the other.
The sunset will be beautiful tonight. Already, the sun is a fiery orange glow dipping low over the horizon. Sloane and I take a seat inside next to a window, a spot that lets us see both the water and the bar, which is crowded with people. Most of whom I know.
After all, I’ve lived here my whole life.
As soon as we’re seated, Sloane leans across the table toward me and hisses, “Look! It’s him!”
I glance around, confused. “Him who?”
“The pirate! He’s sitting at the end of the bar!”
“Epic-scruff guy?” I turn and crane my neck to see around the crowd. “Which one—”
That’s all I get out before I spot him, taking up a sizeable portion of the bar and dwarfing the stool beneath him. The impressions come fast.
Broad shoulders. Tousled dark hair. A hard jaw that hasn’t been acquainted with a razor in weeks. A black leather jacket paired with black jeans and a pair of combat boots, all of which look somehow both expensive and battered, carelessly worn. Chunky silver rings decorate the thumb and middle fingers of his right hand.
One is some kind of signet. The other is a skull.
A pair of dark glasses hide his eyes.
It strikes me as odd, wearing sunglasses indoors. Like he’s got something to hide.
“I’m not getting pirate as much as rock star. Or head of a motorcycle gang. He looks like he stepped right off the Sons of Anarchy set. Ten bucks says he’s a drug dealer.”
“Who cares?” whispers Sloane, staring at him. “He could be Jack the Ripper and I’d still let him come all over my tits.”
I say with affection, “Floozy.”
She waves that off. “So I like dangerous alpha males with big-d**k energy. Don’t judge.”
“Go make your move, then. I’ll get a drink and watch from the wings to make sure he doesn’t pull out a knife.”
I motion for the waiter. He gives me a chin jerk and a smile, indicating he’ll be over as soon as he can.
Sloane says, “No, that’s too desperate. I don’t chase men, no matter how hot they are. It’s undignified.”
“Unless you’re a cocker spaniel, the way you’re panting and drooling is undignified. Go rope that stallion, cowgirl. I’m going to the restroom.”
I stand and head toward the women’s bathroom, leaving Sloane gnawing her lip in indecision. Or maybe that’s lust.
- Writer
