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“Your mom told me you were down here,” she said. “Erin told me about the car bomb, and the cops, and Sean, all that stuff. Totally wild.”
“Yeah.” His voice was thick. He coughed. “It was, uh, intense.”
Cindy rolled her eyes. “Those McCloud guys can’t do the simplest thing without it turning into a life or death drama.”
Miles let out a noncommittal grunt.
Cindy perched her taut ass on the edge of his worktable. Faded jeans showed off her smooth, tanned belly. A silver ring gleamed in her navel. If she turned around, the waistband would be just low enough to show off the Celtic knotwork tattoo. It pointed at the crack of those pert buttocks. As if any more attention needed to be drawn to them. He shifted in his chair. Crossed his legs, to hide his inevitable reaction.
“You lost the specs,” she commented. “Are you using contacts?”
“Nah. Got Lasik surgery a few months ago.”
“Oh. Wow.” Cindy twisted her hands together, at a loss. She looked different. Her face was spattered with freckles, hair yanked into a ponytail. Her eyes looked shadowed. Too much partying, probably. No makeup. She was ten times cuter without all that crap on her face.
“So?” she said brightly, throwing up her hands. “What’s up? What are you doing up here? I thought you were sick of this town.”
“I thought you already knew everything worth knowing.”
“Oh, come on, Miles,” she said softly. “Don’t.”
He shrugged, with bad grace. “I’m teaching a karate class at the dojo up near the Arts Center,” he said.
“Oh!” Her eyes widened, impressed. “That’s cool!”
“And I’m doing some sound gigs. Got one tonight for the Howling Furballs, up at the Rock Bottom,” he went on grimly.
“Yeah? I know those guys. Maybe I’ll come. And oh. The Rumors have a gig next week, and our sound guy just bagged. Could you—”
“No,” he said curtly. “I don’t want to do sound for the Rumors.”
He’d done free sound for years for the Vicious Rumors, the band in which Cindy played sax. Just to stare at her, to be near her. Chump.
Cindy wrapped her arms across her belly, a thing she did when she was tense. “OK. Uh…maybe I’d better not see if I can make it to the Furballs’s gig tonight, then.”
She waited for him to tell her to please, please come. He sat like a lump, and let her wait. Let her see how it felt. He’d waited for years.
“OK,” she said. “I have a good imagination. I’ll just pretend that we’re having a polite conversation, being as how we’ve been friends forever. Let’s see. You would start with, hey, Cin, great to see you, how’s life? Oh, yeah, Miles. Same old same old. Band camp is crazy, plus I’m working at the Coffee Shack in my free time, so if you get the urge for a Mexican Iced Mocha, come on down, and I’ll frappé one up for free. For sure, Cin, you bet I’ll be there for that iced mocha, with bells on. Great, Miles, I’ll be waiting for ya. Other than that, just gigs with the Rumors, pick-up bands, weddings. And I’m getting my own place, in September.”
“Yeah?” He broke his own vow of silence. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
Cindy touched her tongue to her upper lip, a trick that drove him crazy with lust. “Um…there’s no guy. I’m not seeing anybody.”
“Wow, sounds like a state of emergency,” he muttered sourly.
“It’s a group house. With Melissa and Trish. In Greenwood.”
“And your mom can manage her mortgage plus your rent?”
Cindy looked hurt. “Nobody’s going to pay my rent. What do you think I’m doing, busting my ass with three million jobs? Jeez, Miles.”
“I just figured you’d hook up with some guy with a Maserati and a baggie full of coke, and be his happy little concubine,” Miles said.
Splotches of color bloomed on Cindy’s face. “Ouch,” she whispered. “That was really cold and nasty.”
That was Miles Davenport. Cold as an iceberg. Nasty as a pile of fresh dogshit. He sat there, glaring, and didn’t take it back.
“You’re still mad about what happened at Erin’s wedding?” Cindy’s voice was tight. “It’s been a whole year! Forgive me already!”
