Sweet Forty-Two(21)

Ok, then.

I twisted my lips and focused on the road, grateful that the drive back to E’s would be twenty minutes, tops. On second thought, that seemed like a really long time.

At a red light I turned toward her. She was in faded jean shorts, but they weren’t as short as the ones I’d seen her in behind the bar. They were rolled up to her mid-thigh, the part where the inner thigh curves in just slightly. She was wearing one of those tank tops with the way oversized armholes. The kind designed to let lookers-on view the side of the bra.

Hers was red. Bright red. That wasn’t the most interesting part. Okay, it was, but what caught my eye after three seconds was a tattoo just below the lacy red fabric.

“What does your tattoo say?” The driver in the car behind me laid on her horn, kindly letting me know I’d been sitting at a green light for who knows how long. I moved forward as Georgia gestured kindly back to the driver with her hand out the window.

“You lookin’?” She smirked as she looked back at me, her eyes simmering.

“Seems you made sure I would with that shirt.” I bit my lip to keep from smiling too big.

“It is far better to be feared than loved.”

“Excuse me?”

“My tattoo. It says it is far better to be feared than loved.”

“Ah,” I nodded, swallowing once to keep the heaviness away. “Not true, though...”

Georgia snorted. “Clearly you’ve never been in love.”

My head started to float a little, just like it had last night. I shifted in my seat, stretching my head side to side in hopes of stopping it.

“Am I wrong?” she pressed, teasingly.

“You’re wrong.” I felt cold sweat sprout along my hairline. Two deep breaths later and I felt regulated again.

“Then,” Georgia sighed, “you’ve never been feared.” All jest drained from her voice as she rooted her elbow on the armrest and shook her hand through her hair.

With a quick glance, I could see that CJ was right when he teased her about dying her hair. Deep, black roots shown between her fingers. She’d look excellent with black hair. I was relieved to see our exit coming up.

It was barely seven in the morning as I turned into the parking lot of E’s tavern. Georgia and I had ridden the rest of the way in strained silence. Just when I’d thought I’d learned a great deal about women from spending so much time with Ember, I felt like Georgia was speaking a different language. The attitude she displayed with her mouth was at odds with the vulnerability in her eyes. CJ mentioned that her dad was kind of a loser, so I chalked it up to daddy issues.

“Here we are. That blue car yours?” I headed toward a Chevy Cavalier.

“That’s me. He’s not my boyfriend, by the way.”

I put the car in park. “What?”

“Dex. He’s not my boyfriend.” She reached behind my seat and pulled her small canvas backpack into her lap. The smell of mint still lingered on her pale skin.

“Oh. Well ... what the hell was that all about last night, then?”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s just a jacked up ex-jock with Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“That friend of yours, Bo, isn’t, right?”

“How’d you know Bo was a jock?”

She shrugged. “It would have been a damn waste of those shoulders if he wasn’t.”

“Well,” I laughed, “I think he was the quarterback.”

“Of course he was.” She rolled her eyes, not mockingly, but seemingly to cue me into her thoughts on high school caste systems.

“But didn’t you leave the bar with him?”

“Who?”

“Dex.”

“Sure,” she smiled as she opened the door, “I leave the bar with a lot of people, Regan. Dex, though ... I didn’t go home with Dex. I walked him to a cab. Follow me back up the highway. K?”

“Will do.” I barely got out the end of my sentence as her door slammed to a close.

Craving spearmint gum the whole way, I followed Georgia’s ten-year-old car up I-5.

Once we navigated into La Jolla, her car took left turn after left turn, it seemed, until we were dangerously close to the water. Turning left down one more road, there were buildings to my left, and nothing to my right. Air. And, apparently, a cliff.

Georgia pulled up in front of a white building with a garage on street level. Next to the garage, in the same building, was what appeared to be a small bakery. There was no name on it, and the lights were off. I pulled up behind her, checking my surroundings once more, before succumbing to the glaring reality that I’d never be able to afford this place.

“Yo,” Georgia rapped on my window, “we’re here, rock star.”

I got out and looked up at the top floor, which held large picture windows. “You ... this ... this is the place?”

“Yeah, follow me.” She pulled a key from her pocket and headed up the stone stairs that wrapped around the building, making the entrance in the back.

Once inside the narrow entryway, I saw an “A” on the door to the right and a “B” on the door to the left.

“This is the one that’s open.” Georgia stuck the key into the “B” apartment lock and opened the door, letting me in first.