Ten Below Zero(4)

I turned back around and set my phone on the bar; picking up another lime slice just as his phone dinged and my text filled his screen.

Everett looked at it and looked at me. “You’re not Sarah, though?”

“Nope.” This time, I did squirm in my seat. I hadn’t exactly thought this part out.

“Was your name ever Sarah?”

I raised an eyebrow at that. “No.” What kind of question was that?

“I’m…” he started, running a hand through the mop of hair on his head. “Confused. Yes, confused. I was expecting a Sarah.”

“Well,” I said, taking a delicate sip of my drink. “You got a Parker instead.”

“Is this a joke? Jacob told me he was giving me Sarah’s number.”

“Who’s Jacob?” I asked, nonchalantly.

For the first time, a flash of white stretched his lips. “You’re not Jacob’s friend, are you?”

I took another sip of my drink and placed it on the napkin. “Probably not.” I don’t have friends, I added to myself.

“Did I text a wrong number?” he asked, leaning back to get a better look at me.

“If you were expecting a Sarah, who is Jacob’s friend, when you sent that text, then yes, my number was the wrong number.” It was said with a slight bite of sarcasm, but I controlled my features, maintaining the aloofness I was projecting.

“Well, why didn’t you say something when I said, ‘This is Jacob’s friend, Everett’ in my first text?”

I shrugged and swallowed another lime. “I figured you thought your friend Jacob was kind of a big deal and that I should be expected to know him.” It was a lie, but it sounded funny.

Everett took a sip of his drink. The moment right after he swallowed he laughed, a short sound. “And you decided to come along? To meet me? I could have been a crazy serial killer for all you knew.”

I visibly trembled. My hand nearly dropped the lime peel I pulled from the lips and my throat closed up, causing the fruit I was swallowing to nearly come back up. I knew my alarm was at what he said, not fear that he was what he suggested he could be. Serial killers didn’t dress all in black and drink whiskey in bluesy bars. They lurked around corners, in the dark, preying upon those unaware of their presence.

I knew my reaction to his off-hand remark had registered with Everett because he seemed uncomfortable. I tried to break the tension.

“I was bored,” I blurted out.

“Come again?”

I took a sip of my drink; let the gin cool the nerves that had flared up, before I swallowed. “I came along because I was bored.” I set the drink down and turned towards him, sizing him up. “And my status has not changed.”

I watched as Everett let that sink in. It was a bitchy thing to say. But I was socially awkward, stilted from my self-imposed loneliness. Words could bite. When I spoke to strangers, I wanted my words to have fangs.

He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes guarded. I couldn’t read him as easily as some other people and that frustrated me. We sat there at the end of the bar, our eyes locked on each other as we contemplated what to say.

He set his glass down on the bar and rubbed his thumb over his upper lip. His gaze never wavered, never slipped from mine. My mind flooded with thoughts; I couldn’t quiet a single one of them.

“Why did you really come?” he asked, his voice just barely above a whisper. Something about the way he said it made my leg want to bounce up and down. I decided I wanted him to say it again.

“What did you say?” I asked, leaning closer. The space between us became nonexistent a second later, when he wrapped his hand on the back of my chair and leaned in closer, close enough to brush his lips against my ear. I felt an uncontrollable need to cross my legs. My breathing became shallow, my heart rate picked up and I couldn’t help the flood of desire that overtook my body.

“I said,” he started, his breath warm from the whiskey, “why did you really come?”

I felt trapped. He had completely enclosed me and his voice…why was I squirming? Without a second thought, I stood up, grabbed my clutch and phone and took off out the door.

I ran down the sidewalk, my heels catching in the impressions of the worn concrete. I fell a handful of times as I ran blindly towards my apartment, ignoring the cat calls and stepping into the street to avoid plowing into groups of smokers gathered along the sidewalk under the street lamps. Smoke wafted in my face and I remembered a piece of the memory I suppressed. Smoke was a comforting smell to me, but every time I smelled it I was brought back to my body lying on the asphalt, a voice urging me to wake up.

They said that scent was the strongest sense related to memory and I believed it. It dredged up memories that I tried to ignore.

As soon as I stepped into the apartment and slammed the door, I vomited into the kitchen sink.





Around 1:00 a.m., I was lying in the center of my bed, on top of the covers, still wearing Jasmine’s dress. I had vomit in my hair and on my face and I didn’t care. My mind was still processing what had happened.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Jasmine and Carly were probably ready for me to pick them up.

Instead, I was greeted with a text from someone else. It was a photo of my Visa and a short message.

Everett: Want this back?