Loving Me, Trusting You(11)

And then before anybody can say a thing, before they can see the bit of wetness that's streaming down my face, I turn around and walk away, hips swaying, hair flowing behind me. I feel powerful and weak at the same time, like I'm a perfect conundrum, something to be feared and worshipped both.

I hit the glass doors of the lobby with both hands and emerge into liquid heat that washes over me like a wave, drenching my body in sweat, plastering my hair to my forehead.

“Fucking Southern summer shit,” I murmur. I hate the heat. I'll be honest. Growing up in Seville, in Spain, the weather was one of the things that I hated the most. Three hundred days a year it was sunny, bright and hot. At least fifty of those days were akin to living on the sun with soaring temperatures that made the city look like a ghost town. I don't miss it there, and I hate this. I like places that have a definition between the seasons, where you can see fall change to winter, winter to spring, spring to summer. There's a magic to that. Not like this long, oppressive blanket of stifling heat.

I growl under my breath and dig around in the pockets of my jacket for a smoke, pulling one out and placing it between my lips with trembling hands. The leather comes off next, peeled away from sticky skin and slung over my shoulder as I cross the street without checking either way. This is a one horse town, so to speak, one of those places where everything closes down after five o'clock.

“Sawyer, wait up.”

I don't wait. I keep going, ignoring Gaine's voice as I step up on the sidewalk and under the pale blue-white glow of the bar's single sign.

“Back off, Gaine. I used to think your obsession with me was cute. Now, it's just plain f*cking creepy.” I kick open the heavy wooden door with my foot. Probably a little overdramatic, but it feels damn good. Inside, a couple of lazy drunks and a group of young kids stare at me with interest. This place must just worship the antique bike show every year because instead of the hopping joint it was a few weeks back, now it looks like a dive.

I move over to the bar with Gaine on my heels and toss my coat over a stool before sitting down and ordering yet another beer. I could get to my drunk with something else, but it wouldn't feel right. A good beer buzz is the only thing that sounds good to me right about now.

I run my fingers over the mangled top of the bar, tracing scratches with my nails and pretending that Gaine didn't slide onto the stool next to mine.

“You feel any better after that outburst?” he asks, and I glance up at him, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. Here's the thing about Gaine Kelley: no matter how hard I try, how loud I yell, how fierce I get, he never goes away. For years, I've been trying to swat the * off like a fly in the hot summer sun and still, he persists. To tell you the truth, I can better understand why Austin doesn't want me than I can understand why Gaine does. I don't know what man would want to take on a woman with the emotional scars I have, to deal with someone who has a temper even she doesn't fully understand. Something is seriously wrong with me, and yet, Gaine acts like I'm a f*cking goddess. At first, I thought it was youth and inexperience. Now, I just think he's nuts. Loco hijo de puta.

“Sure, Gaine. I've had a revelation and am going to become a saint!” I hold my hands in the air and shake them around. “Praise the Blessed Virgin. Gloria a Dios!” I drop my fists back to the bar and wrap my fingers around the pale yellow label. When I glance at it, I don't recognize the brand. Probably something local, homegrown, and tasteless. The night I danced on this bar, that I filmed Austin and Amy together, I had no idea how much my life was going to change in such a short time. I'd gotten used to the way things were. I liked them that way, and now? I feel more alone than ever.

Kelley drums his fingers on the counter and watches me with eyes that glitter like the night sky. They're so dark that in the right light, his pupils melt into his irises and make him look otherworldly. I won't deny that it's sexy. Gaine is as attractive as they come, but I'm not in the mood to be swept off my feet by a man, especially not one that's five years my junior.

“Are you done yet?” he asks me and his voice slips out of that Southern sultry drawl and into a bit of New York. Oh yeah. He thinks I don't know where he comes from, but I do. We can hide from our pasts, but eventually, they'll catch up with us. It's best to keep a net waiting just in case. “Because I'd like to have an actual conversation with you.”

“This is the mood I'm in tonight, Gaine. If you don't like it, leave. You don't owe me anything.” I finish my drink and start in on the next. The bartender here is good. I don't like having to ask.

I stare at the dirty mirror above the rows of bottles and try to imagine that there's another world in there, one that doesn't f*ck you at every turn, where people care and shit smells like roses. Hah. Fat chance.

“No, but I owe you everything, Mireya,” Gaine whispers, bending close. The bartender sets a beer down next to his wrist, the one with the koi fish tattoos. I hate the damn things, but I guess I can't complain. I've got a tramp stamp on my back, right above my ass crack. It's a winged pig. You know that phrase, when pigs fly? Sounded like a good idea after a night of tequila shots. I do my best to keep it hidden at all times.

“How's that, Gaine?” I ask, turning my head slightly as the doors to the bar swing open and in walk Beck and Melissa. God. What a train wreck that girl is. If I thought I was messed up, Mel has completely lost it. She doesn't even look like the same woman. She's not wearing any makeup and her clothes are as plain as can be, just a white tee and a pair of dirty jeans. Her hair is loose and stringy and her lips are stuck in a permanent frown. I mean, I never thought she actually liked Kent, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe she did love the *?