I crossed my arms across my chest the second I stepped into the bar. Somewhere Luca was in here, waiting for me. At least I looked the part. My eyes darted around the room, taking it all in.
Bella, my best friend and cousin, had dressed me, as per usual for dates and parties. Left to my own devices, I would be in leggings and a t-shirt. Maybe shorts if I wanted to be saucy. To put it simply, I wasn't to be trusted with choosing my own attire. Therefore, Bella helped be my picking out my clothes and shoes from both of our closets before spinning me around like the 'After' part of a makeover show.
I stalled by looking at myself in the mirror.
Yep, perfect.
But—what if Luca didn't even like this outfit? I could've came to this bar—his bar—in my favorite high-waisted shorts and my Michael Jackson graphic tee. Instead, Bella loaned me her pair of blue jeans, a crop top, and strappy white heels. My hair had been straightened to the point that even the infamous Louisiana humidity dare not touch it. I felt a little silly going out of my way to dress up for a guy I already knew was attracted to me.
He was attracted to you from the party. Not the blue jean shorts and old t-shirt you, Bella reminded me, and, admittedly, she was right. Eventually he'd have to see me without make-up on at some point, though.
"Eventually, sweetheart, you're either gonna have to buy a drink to ignore why you came in here—or you're gonna have to face it," the bartender said, pulling me from staring at my reflection. Had my procrastination been that obvious?
I turned to the bartender. No older than his early thirties, he had a bald spot on the top of his head. Still, though, he was handsome in that 'I used to be in a band that I swore was going somewhere but never made it to the top so now I'm a bar- tender' kind of way.
I smiled at him, taking a step closer to the bar. About thirty people dispersed throughout the barr. One man had two women draped on either side of him with a hazy cloud of smoke surrounding them. A few tables down, a man and woman snorted cocaine from their pinkies and laughed. Four people sat at the bar and drowned their sorrows in high-priced vodka. Everybody else either played pool or drank to themselves. Blues music playing over the speakers made the bar feel more like a place for the lonely and not the "eclectic, electric" night life described on the internet.
"I'll take a drink," I told him, looking around one more time. No Luca. It was six o'clock, exactly the time we said we'd meet.
The man arched an eyebrow. "You don't strike me as the type who drinks."
I don't, I thought, but I winked at him instead. "People are rarely who they appear to be." I scanned the alcohol like I knew what to look for. I had a hard time discerning Jack from Jim or Vodka from Jose truthfully.
I tapped my fingers against the counter, which looked like solid gold. It matched well with the mahogany, wooden paneled walls. The stools matched the same shade as the walls, the seats gold and comfortable. Dark brown sofas lined the walls, fluffed with gold and tan pillows. The middle of the floor consisted of an empty space with mahogany flooring. On the other side of walls were two-person tables, sheathed in gold. It had a stage, complete with a DJ booth.
"Indeed they are, sweetheart." He straightened up. "So what brings you here? You can get a shot of that Jim you're eying anywhere."
Jim. My daddy drunk it after a long day. Once, when I was about ten, Daddy left it on the table, and I took a big gulp. I ran to the bathroom two minutes later and threw everything up. The acid burn from my puke matched the alcohol burn in my chest. I tried again on my eighteenth birthday. My chest burned for three hours straight.
Even now the thought of drinking it added some hair to my chest.
"Waiting on someone," I told him. I glanced toward the two entrances again. No sign of Luca. Of course, with this being his bar, maybe he'd make a grand entrance through some secret entrance.
Skepticism made me wonder, at first anyway, how he owned his own club and bar at twenty-three. However, he informed that his uncle left it to him in his will. To keep his uncle's partying legacy alive, Luca kept the club up-and-running. He had owned it for about two years now.
"Lucky man." He grabbed the bottle off the shelf, dangling it in front of me. "This your vice of choice?"
I shook my head. "Actually, I'll take a water while I wait," I told him, looking down at my phone. Three minutes after six. Bella had sent me a test message, asking if I had made it safely. Here and waiting, I responded, giving her a thumbs up.
"I knew you weren't a drinker," the bartender said. He grinned knowingly at me. "So what do you do?"
I took a sip of my water before answering, my mouth uncharacteristically dry. I always got a little nervous before dates, but never like this before. The butterflies in my stomach were slowly turning to baby birds as the minutes ticked by. "I'm in school," I replied.
We engaged in the College Conversation. The "Oh, what do you study?" which led to, "What do you want to do with that?" followed by "When do you graduate?" and, lastly, the concluding, obligatory, "Well, congratulations! Stay in school."
Luckily, he didn't tell me about his college years, if he had them, or how he would've went somewhere or should've went somewhere. He did, however, tell me about his band.
"I used to be in a band called Pink Armband," he told me, and his voice did that thing where it lowered so the woman would have to get closer to him to hear. I leaned forward slightly just to be nice. Thinking about the bartender posed no serious threat to my nerves, as well as it made me think of something other than Luca being more than six minutes late. Was I being stood up? "An alternative rock band. We were supposed to go big."
Despite not being interested, I smiled. Right now my heart pitter-pattered in my chest. If I was being stood up.... "Totally had you pegged at a band guy," I told him, batting my eyelashes. "You have The Look."
His answering smile proved to me he thought I was far more attractive than I found him. Not surprising. "And what look is that?"
Kind of broke. A look in your eyes like your dreams have been destroyed right in front of you. A look like you cling to younger women flirting with you for free drinks at the bar because what else does life have to offer you?
I said none of that, though, instead choosing to bide my time with another sip of water before waving my hands in a noncommittal way. "Y'know, the look. I can't describe it but I know it when I see it." Of course I could describe it. I wrote books. I could describe anything. How water tastes. How air feels.
The bartender nodded slowly, his grin widening. "You have a certain look, too."
I sure did, considering I let Bella help me get ready. "Do I?" My phone buzzed. A social media notification. Anger threatened to cut through the nerves with its sharp edge.
The bartender nodded, this time his head motions emphasized. "You look like you're way too pretty to be stood up by some asshole in a bar," he told me.
Blegh. I resisted the urge to grimace.. He genuinely thought that line was it. As if a balding guy in his mid-thirties would be able to bag me with a cheesy one-liner that, if Luca was standing me up, served as a reminder of something that could potentially send me from his bar crying. I opened my mouth to reply, but another voice cut me off.
"The asshole would happen to be your boss, David," said a smooth voice. His rich voice wrapped itself around me, squeezing my heart then releasing it in a way that made the nerves disappear. I was Clare Michelle Walker, and I had been on plenty of dates before. "And she isn't being stood up. Once again, my brother called me at a very inopportune time, and I couldn't quite tell him to kiss my a—esophagus like I wanted to."
By his second sentence, I had whirled around in surprise. Now I faced him, my chest only inches from his. Even with heels on, I stood a head shorter, coming right underneath his perfectly square jaw. I tilted my head up to look at him, and Jesus. As my grandmother was apt to saying, God don't make'em like that anymore.
In the club, Luca had been a certain kind of fine—his button-up shirt had been rolled to his sleeves, the first few buttons undone, untucked from his black jeans. His hair was resting on his shoulders and had had that mussed look to it, kind of like someone had been running their fingers through it. His eyes had been wild and wide-eyed, and his breath had smelled slightly of Merlot. Nice. A little flirty but dressed down enough and casual enough looking that I didn't think he could transform into this.
From the top of his head to the bottom of his alligator shoes screamed immaculate. Not a single strand of his blonde hair stepped out of place in his man-bun. His thick eyebrows naturally arched over his deep blue eyes, not the color of the sky, but more like the middle of the ocean. His broad shoulders were covered in a black designer suit, tailored to fit his long semi-muscular frame. A gold watch covered in diamonds caught the sun streaming through the window and sent slivers of light floating around us. This Luca was sexy and a little intimidating. The majority of the sun backed him, turning him into something not from this world. Like a devil on my shoulder. If I thought I had been nervous at the party, this was akin to... being set on fire.
"Hey." My left hand gripped the edge of the stool I had been sitting on to steady myself. My right hand rested against my thigh to wipe off the sweat that accumulated on my palm. My torso curved so I wouldn't touch him, even a little. If I did, I surely would combust.
He looked down at me, eyes twinkling mischievously. "Hi." He didn't have an accent. He sounded like he could be from anywhere. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting."
"Oh, it's fine." My voice was nonchalant, way calmer than I felt. It most definitely was fine now. And so was he. Any bubbling anger I had at him being late had faded away immediately at the sight of him.
"It's not," he disagreed coolly. "David was right about one thing—you're too beautiful to be kept waiting. Especially by someone like me."
Someone like him? Who was I?
He smirked, taking a step away from me. "Would you like to follow me?"
Unto the end of the Earth. I thought about leaning over and giving him a hug like I usually would, but Luca was not a regular guy, and, honestly, hugging him would've unraveled what little sense I had left. I kept it at a smile and followed him.
"I saw you walk in," he said. He put his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the club as if it were packed with people. An excuse to get closer to you, I thought, filing that away for things to tell Bella later. "But, as I mentioned earlier, I was on a phone call with my brother, and he insisted it was important."
"Was it?" I asked because he sounded as if it wasn't at all. I understood that well. Chloe, my little sister, often made every little thing seem like it was the end of the world. Once, she called me three times in a row, frantically, because mom was four minutes late to pick her up. She swore our parents had forgotten about her, when, in truth, she hadn't checked her phone to see that Mom had texted she was stuck in traffic. Chloe insisted I pick her up, and I left class early, only to arrive to an empty gymnasium. Mom had already picked her up.
Now I made sure to ask for all the details before I go to her.
He rolled his blue eyes, nudging me left. "Of course not. Griffin is known for his dramatics just as much as his greed." He scowled, stopping at a table toward the back. The area was empty, far enough away that I could barely hear the music that played.
I made no remark. I didn't want to agree, and he get upset I said something about his brother. I often found that it was okay for people to vent about the wrong-doers in their life, but it was never okay for you to agree with them about the wrong-doers.
He pulled my chair out. "Please, have a seat. I wanted to actually go out and about today, but my schedule didn't allow for what I had planned."
I sat. "And what was that?"
He sat down across from me, and a girl immediately ran to us. She scowled as if she didn't want to be here, and usually I would be upset, but all my focus went to not looking like a doofus in front of Luca. "Can I get you two something to drink?" the girl asked, her voice demanding.
"I'll take a glass of my best white wine, Tam. And for you, Clare?" Luca answered as the girl slapped some menus down in front of us. They were as classy and elegant as the rest of the club, designed on laminated cream paper with olive and gold borders, written in fancy script.
I looked away from him and to the girl, my cheek burning from hearing him say my name so... musically. "I'll take a glass of wine, too. Red. And a glass of water." I wasn't a big drinker, but a few sips of wine wouldn't hurt. Maybe it'll loosen me up a little so I wouldn't feel like melting into the floor.
Luca looked at me then, his perfect eyebrow arched over the smirk on his face.
Nope. Nothing would stop me from melting in the floor when the time came.
His smirk broadened, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.
His lips grazed my ear, but he wasn't trying to kiss me—he was telling me about the picture we were looking at. After leaving his club, bellies full, he brought me to a small art gallery a few blocks away. He had held my waist, holding me up as my feet screamed in the heels. I hadn't planned on walking. When we entered the gallery, the women had smiled at him but left us alone, and he went over each part of the art, asking me what I thought of it—I didn't, art wasn't my thing—and when I answered, he leaned forward, his chest barely brushing against me, his suit jacket long discarded at the club.
My hand floated above my keyboard. I had woken up three hours ago, a random urge to write hitting me so hard, I hadn't been able to focus on anything else. I hadn't written anything that wasn't for class in two weeks.
Sighing, I dropped my hand onto my lap. The sun streamed through the window, and I had about three hours until work. I could go back to sleep now, take a two hour nap and then rush to get ready until I had to be at the cafe (which was technically for ten a.m., but when your dad and uncle owned the place you kind of did what you wanted). Or I could stay up and try to churn some more words since I had put myself on a deadline of finishing in the next two months, and I was barely halfway through.
There was also the third option of going downstairs to get breakfast and then watching TV until work.
I decided on breakfast and writing. As it stood, I wrote about three pages worth of my best writing before my mind kept wandering idly to Luca. He hadn't kissed me; I didn't know if I was happy or sad about that. When guys moved too fast, I usually responded with irritation and never contacting them again. This time, though, I wanted to be kissed. I wanted Luca to kiss me in the same way he had charmed me—hesitantly at first, then all in.
During the conversation, I found myself having to drag my eyes from his full lips, and when we had returned to the club from the art gallery, and he had a shot of whiskey moistening the bottom lip, for some reason, it had taken everything in me to hold myself up on steady knees—and I was sitting down.
On top of his incredibly good looks, Luca was the perfect conversationalist. He listened really well, which I found wasn't common for the guys I usually dated. Luca told me virtually nothing of himself, except that he was born and adopted in New Orleans, and he inherited his money and businesses. The rest of the conversation revolved around me. Truly, it was a fairy tale, and while it inspired me to write, I didn't want to incorporate our date into my writing.
Instead, I thought, biting down on my lip as my mind reworked my eventful date into the plot of my story, I could send my protagonist on a blind date with a seemingly perfect guy who was not her love interest, someone who seemed to understand but turned out to be trash and push her closer to the love interest.
Or not.
Another heavy sigh left my mouth, and I closed my laptop and padded across my room barefoot until I found my bunny slippers in the dark. I could hear some banging around downstairs. Probably Mom. Dad woke up at the last possible second. Chloe woke up about thirty minutes before us because she liked to do yoga before school. She was already trying to rope someone into joining her in the mornings. Mom was the only one who got up early enough to make breakfast, and, lately, she had been getting up earlier and earlier.
I closed my door quietly behind me. It was Saturday morning, way too early for me to be up. If it hadn't have been for my surge of inspiration, I would've been fast asleep under my blankets, buried in a mound of pillows. There was a pause in the banging, and then I heard a swear word before something clanged to the ground. I smiled, taking the steps two at a time until I stood at the entrance of the kitchen, watching Mom.
We looked exactly alike, down to the matching birthmarks on our honey-colored shoulders.
We only differed in age, and hairstyle: she usually kept her hair straightened, and I tossed mine in a bun.
Our personalities were completely different, though. Like Chloe, she focused more, taking her time on projects. She was organized and realistic, paying attention to little details. Because of this, we often clashed—like Dad, I did what I wanted to do at the moment, left projects undone and halfway thought out, and moved on from idea to idea as suited my fancy.
"Good morning, Mama," I greeted, kissing her on the cheek.
She picked up the fallen pot, glaring at it for its part in the tumble. "Hey, Clare," she grumbled, straightening up.
"You've been up for a minute." I leaned against the counter, curious, as she turned on the stove. She had already stirred some eggs together, preparing them for scrambling. Also, her face bore the beginning stages of make-up, a sure sign she had been up for a minute.
She nodded. "I have a case that I just can't figure out," she responded, which was accurate for her. She was a lawyer, putting the bad guys in jail or getting the innocent guys out. When one got really heavy—which it had been for the past two or three weeks—she couldn't sleep, often forgoing shut-eye to look over her notes.
"When's the next time you appear in court?"
"Tuesday." She pressed a hand to her head. I wanted to ask her about it, but I knew by now she wouldn't—and couldn't—share the information with me.
I smiled at her instead. "You'll figure it out. You always do."
She looked at me, a genuine smile replacing the stress between her eyebrows. "Clare-bear, what would I do without you?" she asked, reaching over and touching my arm gently. She wasn't affectionate, not in the sense of how most moms appeared. She hugged us, kissed our booboos, and sometimes she let us snuggle against her when we were watching TV. When Grandfather died, I hopped in the bed with her, and we stayed curled against each other for the better of half a day. Other than that, we had to learn to take comfort in her soft touches and genuine smiles.
Let's hope you never have to find out, I thought, but then I pushed the thought away because it made goose bumps show up on my arms. I opted not to answer, instead pulling out a chair and sitting down.
"How's the book, honey-bun?"
I sighed, explaining it to her in detail. It felt good to talk about it. However, I was no closer to coming up with an answer than I had been in my room. While I spoke, she cooked and nodded, laughed and interjected with suggestions and questions. It felt good to talk to her. Although I came back home every weekend I didn't want to party, I still missed being able to talk to her like this, without Chloe inserting herself into the conversation or Mom feeling the need to divide her attention between the two of us.
When I was finished, a little over forty minutes had passed and the sun had risen. The smell of cinnamon rolls wafted through the air. Dad made his way downstairs, already dressed to go into the bakery early. He would meet Uncle Johnny, his older brother and business partner there. Dad owned the bakery part, and my uncle owned the vintage/classic book section. They had one in Alabama, where we used to live before we moved to Louisiana nine years ago. Lola's Books and Bakeries, named after their grandmother, was on its fifth store now, and they aimed to have one in every state within the next twenty years.
"Daddy!" I greeted.
He cuffed the back of my head gently. "Morning, kid," he said gruffly, pouring himself a cup of coffee, black. He took a sip of the coffee, closing his eyes and sighing. "You coming in today?"
"I'm on the schedule."
He gave me a look, knowing that I sometimes called in "sick." He was so softhearted I knew he wouldn't fire anybody else for that. I was safe. I used the job to support my cookie and necklace addictions. "So you're not coming in?" he joked, voice booming. He was just as honey-colored as Mom, but his smile was bigger and crinkled his brown eyes in the corners. He had curly hair he kept cut about an inch or two off his head. He was fit, thanks to his gym membership, and was attractive according to my friends.
I smiled back at him. "I'll come in for a few hours. Around lunch, I'll start to feel faint from lack of food, though."
"Bella is working until three."
"Suddenly I feel better."
He shook his head, smiling at Mom. "Who raised her?"
She pulled the cinnamon rolls out of the oven, placing them to the side to cool off before icing. In three minutes, breakfast would be served. My stomach grumbled appreciatively. "A den of wolves."
They smiled affectionately at me, but the moment was lost by the arrival of my eleven-year-old sister, dressed in her pink yoga pants and a black t-shirt. She grinned. "I smell bacon."
A current pulled me under. I flailed, even though I could swim. My cheeks filled with air, and I resembled a pufferfish. My chest burned.
Laughter—wicked, high, and trilling—surrounded me. How was I trapped in a nightmare?
I hit something solid. Sand, I realized, gulping in deep breaths. I dug my fingers into it, each little piece getting stuck underneath my nails. I opened my eyes, wet streaks on my cheeks.
Lightening clapped the dark sky. "Quit your sniveling, child."
Her voice was dark and rumbly, powerful, and it chilled me to my bone. "Mother," I gasped because she had come to me before. She had been visiting me for years now, since I was three, telling me I was a 'key' part to her escape. She seemed so real sometimes.
She walked toward me, long black hair blowing back. She wore nothing. "My dear, sweet Clare, the only one of the Walker girls who loves me. Her hand touched my cheek. Cold, so cold.
I tried not to scream. When it looked like I was afraid, she kept me here longer. Instead, I looked up at her. What did she want?
"It's time, my dear girl." She kneeled before me, pale and translucent. "I need you to deliver a message to Luca."