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“Nope, but if you hear of any going, will you let me know?”
“Ah, I’m sure there’s a million bars and restaurants in Cove that’ll have—”
I cut him off, firm and fast. “I want to stay local, so I’m only looking in Devil’s Dip.”
No Cove, no Hollow. It would be too tempting to stick my hands in deep pockets, and I’m trying not to do that anymore.
I turn around just in time to see suspicion thread through Matt’s gaze. He opens his mouth, no doubt with a barrage of questions on his tongue, but I get there before he can. “Thanks for helping me with my stuff. Perhaps we’ll catch up this weekend, if you’re around?”
A hint that even an idiot couldn’t miss. He pushes himself off the door frame and takes two steps back into the shadows of the hallway. “Sure thing, I’ll leave you to it.” He pauses at the front door. “You got any plans tomorrow?”
“Depends on what you’re about to propose.”
“A wedding. Free food, free liquor, and a good time. What’d you say?”
I frown. “Who’s getting married?”
“Remember Rory Carter?”
I groan. Not because I don’t like Rory—quite the opposite, in fact. She’s one of the nicest girls on the Coast. She went to the only other school in Devil’s Dip and also worked the night shift at the diner at the end of the street. Every time I went in, she gave me an extra portion of fries or a hot chocolate on the house, and I kept her company while she cleaned tables and did stock-checks. She was probably only nice to me because my parents were killed, but still, she was the closest thing I had to a female friend.
No. I groaned because Rory is the same age as me, which means I’m at the age where people have their shit figured out.
I, on the other hand, am very far from having my shit figured out.
“Who is she marrying? Anyone I know?”
Matt cocks his head in thought. “No, don’t think you’d know him. So, what do you say? You want to be my date?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek and mull it over. I guess it’d be nice to see some old faces, and I probably have a suitable dress gathering dust in my closet. Besides, maybe I’ll meet someone who’s hiring.
“I’m down, as long as you don’t call me your date.”
“No, you’re not my date, you’re my wing-woman. This girl I like is going.”
“So, what? You want me to sing your praises to her in the bathroom?”
“No; I want you to look at me like you’re in love with me and pretend to laugh at my jokes. Then, when she realizes how hot I look in a tux, I need you to make yourself scarce.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Has that ever worked for you before?”
He flashes me a wink. “Dunno, never tried it. I’ll pick you up at two pm.”
He breezes out of my apartment, leaving me with nothing but my thoughts and the noisy whir of the heating unit.
Shower. After almost three days in the back of stinky buses, smelling like a walking, talking ashtray, the thought of a shower is my idea of heaven, even if it’ll be cold, because I haven’t turned on the water heater yet. I drop my coat on the floor and peel myself out of this too-tight dress. Even though it’s more expensive than all of my other clothes combined, I can’t wait to throw it out. The rest of me may smell like smoke and sweat, but this dress reeks of whiskey and close-calls, and I never want to see it again. Plus, it’s part of my past. Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up, and I’m going to be good.
The icy water streams down my body, dampening my hair and biting at the tension between my shoulder blades. In spite of it, I feel more relaxed because the promise of a new life is on the horizon. Coming back to Devil’s Dip has given me a second chance and somewhere to start over. Somewhere Martin O’Hare will never find me.
I’m going straight.
I’m going to find a job and hold it down for longer than a week.
And I’m going to finally figure out what interests me in this world, other than taking men’s money.
By the time I’ve dried off and detangled my hair, a tiny smile of contentment tugs at my lips. I pull on fluffy socks and pad down the hall toward the bedroom, where a single bed with a naked bulb swinging from the ceiling above it greets me. Sighing, I drop my bundle of clothes at the bottom of it, and something falls out of my coat pocket and onto the floorboards.
Raphael Visconti’s watch. I sit on the edge of the bed and scoop it up. I run a thumb over the smooth crystal face and down the length of its leather straps.
