Where One Goes(9)

I’m still stunned frozen with my mouth hanging open.

“Okay. I should’ve told you, but could you please shut your mouth and stop looking like an idiot?” Ike requests from behind me. Snapping my mouth shut, I straighten up in my seat.

“Uh . . . no. We’ve never met,” I stammer.

George looks to Misty. “Misty, can you go help Sniper unload the produce?”

“Sure.” She smiles at him before cutting a quick glance at me. Once she’s out of sight, George walks behind the bar and sets his clipboard down. Now that I’m able to get a better look at him, I can see some differences. Ike is buffer and broader while George is thinner. George’s hair is longer, shaggier, while Ike’s is buzzed, military style.

“And you are?” George prompts, and I shake my head trying to get my wits about me.

“My name is Charlotte. I’m new to town. I’m staying over at the motel.” I pause, unsure of how to ask him for a job.

“Just ask!” Ike orders.

“I heard you might be looking for a waitress,” I somewhat snap, irritated with Ike. It’s not easy to have someone speak to you that you can’t acknowledge.

“And who’d you hear that from?”

Shit! What am I supposed to say? Your dead brother? “Mr. Mercer mentioned it,” I lie. Hopefully it’ll never come up between them.

“You have experience?”

“Some. I waited tables in college.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“I dropped out after my freshman year six years ago. Family stuff came up.”

More like I started seeing dead people and thought I was losing my f*cking mind, but I skip on the details with George.

“And since then?”

“Uh . . .” Since then, I’ve been driving around the country helping dead people, making no money at all. “I came in to some money, and it held me over for a while, but I need a job now.” Not entirely untrue. My father basically paid me to disappear. I was given a lump-sum of money and told to travel and meet new people. In other words, I was to disappear because I was too complicated, and I freaked everyone out because I could see the dead. I took the money, hugged my parents tightly, and vanished from their lives.

George gives me a once-over and crosses his arms. “I’d like to help you, but you just drifted into town, and I have no guarantee you won’t just up and leave without notice. Maybe try the grocery store down the way.” He turns and bends down, sorting something in a cabinet, and I glance at Ike and shrug.

“God, he’s an arrogant *,” Ike mumbles. “Okay. He’s a betting man. Tell him you bet you can pick out his favorite song on the jukebox, and if you get it, he’ll give you a shot.”

I glance sideways at Ike, letting him know how stupid that sounds.

“Trust me. He’s a cocky son of a bitch. He’ll take the bet thinking you won’t win.”

I shake my head no.

“Do it, Charlotte. Please.” He bats his lashes at me, and I fight the urge to smile. Instead, I glare at him and take a deep breath.

George stands and faces me again, a look of surprise on his face. Maybe he was expecting me to leave after he shut me down.

“You look like a betting man to me.” I stand and start digging in my backpack for spare change. “I bet I can pick out your favorite song on that jukebox. If I do, you give me a job. If I don’t, I leave and never come back.” I find two quarters and smirk at George flirtatiously, challenging him with a cocky shrug.

He snorts and crosses his arms again. “And who’s to say I’ll admit it’s my favorite song? I could just lie.”

“He won’t,” Ike adds, staring at his brother. “He’s not perfect, but he’s no liar.”

“I’m good at reading people. You strike me as an honest man,” I answer, fisting the quarters now. George’s brows furrow as our gazes lock. His eyes are so dark, not like Ike’s. Ike’s are an earthy brown, bright and soft, while George’s are like dark coffee and cold. Not a cruel cold, more like wounded, like a warning to stay away; a broken cold.

“What did you say your name was?” he asks, stepping toward me.

“I’m Charlotte, but people call me Char.” Except for your brother.

“Okay, Charlotte.” He smirks. Apparently, neither of the McDermott brothers plan to call me by my nickname. “You’re on. Pick my favorite song, and I’ll give you a shot.”

I nod in agreement and head toward the jukebox near the entrance. Ike leans one arm against the neon machine as I put my coins in the slot. “Johnny Cash, God’s Gonna Cut You Down,” he says. I can’t help it; I look up at Ike and smirk. “What? You’re not a Cash fan?” He gives me a sad look.

“I am,” I whisper.

“What?” he groans. “Beautiful and fantastic taste in music! Where were you when I was alive?” I smile slightly at his compliment, trying not to be too obvious to George, who is watching me like a hawk.

I flip through the selections until I find the song and enter the numbers. As I walk back toward the bar, the jukebox begins clicking, changing discs, while George and I keep our eyes locked on the other. I stop just before I reach the bar and cross my arms, matching his stance, and raise one eyebrow.