Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(10)
“Yeah, make it two.” He jerks his chin toward me. “And he’s paying.”
I watch her ass sway as she stalks back to the bar with those spikey four-inch heels. While I may not be interested, I can appreciate a tight body when I see one.
“Women here are sweet, huh?” Boone says.
“They’re not women. They’re gold-diggers. Entirely different breed.” There was a time when we preferred the same type—local college girls. The kind you might see heading to a nine a.m. class in pajama pants and a messy ponytail; the kind who wear tight T-shirts and cut-off jean shorts and will get stupid-drunk on beer bongs with you before slurring about how hot you are and dragging you to their dorm room. But over the last year, Boone has started hanging out a lot more with his uncle and his tastes have become more refined. Now he prefers the kind of girl who will duck out of bed to fix her makeup before waking him with a morning blow job.
He gives me a “yeah, I know” shrug. “I’ll bet you could hit that for a night, now that you’re not dressed like a gearhead.”
“I am a gearhead. And so are you, Luke.” I struggle to get that out with a straight face. He hates anyone but women calling him by his first name. And he despises being called a gearhead. In truth, he doesn’t exactly fit the model.
I still laugh every time I think about the first day of class. In a sea of Columbia sportswear and baseball caps, Luke Boone stuck out like a shiny new Porsche in a junkyard, strolling in in his pressed pants and dress shirt, the sleeves rolled high enough to properly display his gold watch. That wasn’t a first-day-of-school look, either. That’s how he always dresses. The only time he and I ever look like we may tread in the same water is when we’re wearing our navy-blue coveralls at work.
I shake my head for the thousandth time. How did a preppy boy like Luke Boone and me, a guy who’s been questioned for attempted murder, end up sharing an apartment? There are really only two reasons I can come up with: we both live for cars and neither of us gives a f**k about anyone else, including each other.
Boone loves looking at cars, knowing about cars, talking about cars. He sure as hell loves driving them, and fast. But he’s more interested in following in his uncle’s enterprising footsteps than actually getting his hands dirty. Rust actually made him take the two-year mechanics program after finishing a four-year bachelor’s degree. He wants the future manager of his garage and whatever else he has in store for Boone—possibly a managerial job at the car sales company he owns—to know the ropes from the ground up. While Boone wasn’t at the top of our mechanics program at college—I was—he’s a natural with people and meticulous about details. He’ll probably do well in an office setting.
I get a middle finger in response before Boone’s attention shifts to the crowd, looking every bit a socialite with money and class, and not the guy who stocks our cupboards with cans of Chef Boyardee and snaps when the DVR messes up and doesn’t record an episode of American Idol. What he does have is a rich bachelor uncle who throws him nice things here and there—cash, gift cards to high-end stores, the watch around his wrist, the cufflinks holding his sleeves together. When Boone’s not rolling out of bed to come into the shop, he looks like he’s heading to a photo shoot, dressing in clothes I’d reserve for weddings and gelling his hair—taming those curls into something females can’t help but start playing with.
The guy’s hair picks up women.
“Do you seriously like this place?” I ask.
“Rust likes it here and I like hanging out with him, so . . . yeah.”
Priscilla comes back with two rocks glasses full of colorless liquid. That was fast. That tells me these aren’t complicated mixes. Her hand settles on my shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze before a sharp fingernail grazes behind my ear. “Did you want to run a tab?” Of course, now that she knows I’m the one paying, she’s spreading the charm on thick.
“Yup, and you can bring us another round when you have a sec, doll,” Boone answers before I can, a smirk plastered on his face. “Cheers!” He clinks my glass and sucks back his drink.
I follow suit, gritting my teeth against the slight burn of hard liquor. It slides down my throat without too much bite, though, so I’m guessing it’s not the four-bucks-a-shot bar-well vodka. Still, I’d rather just have a beer.
“How can you afford coming to places like this?” I hold up my glass. “Drinking this.” Boone makes the same amount as me and it’s nothing to brag about. Sure, our cost of living is low, renting in southeast Portland, but living like Boone isn’t cheap. I don’t even want to think about the bill this ass**le’s going to stick me with tonight.
Boone answers with a one-shouldered shrug. “I buy one, two drinks max. Rust always picks up the tab. I’m his favorite nephew.”
“Aren’t you his only nephew?”
Another middle finger answers me.
Three vodkas later, I’m feeling tingles coursing through my limbs. Boone slaps the table and slides out of his chair. “Come on. Don’t say anything stupid around these guys, all right?”
I roll my eyes at him as we abandon our seats and head through the growing crowd, toward the back of the club. The crowd thins the farther we go, until we’ve reached a section with five alcoves and one roped-off area. Very VIP. Boone stops at the last one, a large, round leather booth with dim crystal pendants hanging from above and heavy black curtains around the sides to add to the secluded feeling. Four men are seated within.