Six
Jesse
Three days later, I’m leaning against the scratched surface of a bar, watching Darla from across the room as I swig from a bottle of bubbly water. It’s fizzy and cool, refreshing and a little bitter. If I spooned in a big heaping of sugar, it’d be just like her.
Squeezed into a booth with her uncle and some of the crew, Darla tosses her head back and laughs. It’s booming and confident, the best sound I’ve ever heard, rising above the wailing of a young local guy into a microphone. A few patrons glance over at her, eyebrows raised, and I wish I could knock their heads together.
I don’t care whether they’re judging her or wanting her. Either way, I wish they were all gone. Wish it was just the two of us in this bar, and that she’d look at me with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes again. That she’d let me lift her onto the wooden booth table, push her legs apart, and bury my face against the seam of her purple leggings.
Damn. When did I turn into such a caveman?
It’s a Thursday, a.k.aRiptide’s weekly karaoke night. Normally, I’m happy enough to come along and blow off steam, to chat with the crew and wince dramatically when Franklin takes to the stage. Maybe to go all-out on a packet of roasted peanuts so long as I schedule extra time at the gym.
I never sing, because I suck at it. And for a normal person, that would mean mild embarrassment, but for me? A few cell phone recordings could damage my whole career.
Especially if I want to move along fromRiptideanytime soon.
I shift against the bar, my phone a lead weight in my jeans pocket. I got the email late this afternoon. A hotshot director in L.A wants to set up a meeting—wants to hear me read for a major role in a new pilot he’s filming. He came tome, reaching out via my wheezy agent.
This could be big. Really big.
If I land this part, it could makeRiptidelook like the kiddie pool.
“So serious these days.”
I know I’ve been in my head when Darla’s husky voice makes me jolt. She’s standing right next to me, her elbows propped on the bar while she waits to be served, and fuck, for the last three days, I’ve been hyper-aware of this girl. Tuned into every half smile and each turn of her head; noting her habit of absent-mindedly patting her pockets; wanting to smooth down the curling collar of her black polo shirt. Wanting to tug her against my chest, and feel all her softness against my hard frame.
I’ve memorized Darla. I know every dip and swell and surface of her body; I know exactly how she’d fit to my hands, if I ever got to touch her. How her silky blonde hair would feel, sliding through my fingers. How she’d sigh.
I’m obsessed. So deep under her spell. Then she sneaks up on me?
“Jesse Hendry is a very serious guy.” God, I sound bitter. That’s not good, so I force a blinding smile. “Haven’t you heard?”
But Darla’s not buying it. She hums, hazel eyes tracing over my features like a caress, lingering on my dimples, before she turns to the bartender and orders a soda.
“I’m driving,” she tells me casually. She changed out of herRiptidepolo before coming here, and the way her blue wrap dress hugs her curves makes my throat ache. “Ferrying Franklin around like the queen.”
I raise my own bubbly water. “Welcome to the clear heads club.”
Me, I’m not driving, but I want to look over that email again later. Research the project, and see what I can dig up about the director. I need all my brain cells accounted for.
Would Darla think it’s dumb—my going out for another role? Shit, would she tell her uncle?
“You want to get out of here?”
It takes a few seconds to realizeIasked the question. Darla blinks at me, a full bottle of soda in her hand. Beads of condensation cling to the glass, trickling over her soft-looking fingers, and she literally just told me she’s driving Franklin tonight. Dumbass.
“Oh.” Darla tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I—um—”
“Forget it. Sorry. Finish your drink.” I push away from the bar, my uncharacteristic dour mood following me like my own personal rain cloud. “I need to get home anyway. Big rescue scene tomorrow. You know how it is.”
“Jesse—”
I hit her with my most dazzling, most practiced smile as I step past, and Darla scowls like I stomped on her foot. My steps falter for half a breath, but I push forward, nudging my way through the loosely-packed crowd.
It’s so hot in here. Muggy and humid, with a sticky wooden floor.
No one stares at me in this bar anymore; the cast and crew ofRiptideare old news in this joint, thank god. The door to the street creaks open, and I step out into the fading light and cool spots of rain.