You'd Be Mine(49)

“I’m not Cora,” I say into the mirror. “I won’t drag him down with me. I won’t be the one to push him over the edge.”

I splash more water, washing away any tears that would betray me. Turning off the faucet with a creak, I pat at my face with a brown paper towel. From my back pocket, I retrieve a tube of ruby lip gloss Kacey asked me to carry for her because boho chic doesn’t do pockets.

Spreading it over my lips, I’m pleased with the result. The shimmer pulls attention away from my wild eyes toward shiny lips. Blotting once, I toss the towel in the trash and unlock the door, throwing it open as another woman is reaching for it.

I tug my hair tie out, freeing my curls with a shake, and pass her by.

Lindy is busy behind the bar again, and I don’t think I can stomach another ginger ale, so I hop the bar to help.

“You know how to mix drinks?” she asks over the din of clattering glasses and music.

I shrug. “I can pop a cap off a beer and make change.”

She grins widely and passes me two bottles, nodding at an older couple at the end of the bar. “Works for me.”





18



Clay


The last thing I clearly remember before waking up in this cold jail cell was Annie leaving Taps.

Sometime around midnight, between Annie walking out and Jason buying another round, I lost my head. It was inevitable. From the moment Fitz told me he’d be going to see Danny and I stupidly offered to come along.

It was inevitable.

I hate this place. This town, the people, the memories. The looks of pity and understanding make me want to scream or punch a wall or drink until I can’t remember my own name and thankyoujesus because who the fuck wants to be fucking Clay Coolidge.

Annie left, and it’s like all my composure, my will to be better, do better, left with her. I saw the look on her face. It’s seared into my brain. We danced and there was something real between us, and then she walked away, and when she came back from the bathroom, it was gone.

My mask is Clay and hers is Annie Mathers, daughter of Cora and Robbie.

I should have left after she did. Fitz and Kacey invited me home with them, but I’d have to be an idiot not to pick up on the cues Fitz was sending my way. Instead, I convinced Fitz I was in good hands with Diaz as my new wingman. Or maybe I was his. Either way, I’m sure Fitz is being stupid and beating himself up over it.

The report says I swung first. Unprovoked or whatever. And if what Jason says is true, then that sounds coldly accurate. He says some shithead was waxing poetic about what a waste my brother’s sacrifice had been. Started ranting about war and politics and things he knew nothing about.

Thing is, I can say Danny’s sacrifice was a waste. He’s my brother, and I hate that he chose the Marines over me.

But fuck if someone else is going to say that. He died because he believed so hard in people like that fucker getting to spout off whatever they want. He died because he was so good, so undeniably decent and noble. The world isn’t worthy of him.

So I lost it on the guy.

Or at least that’s what Diaz tells me. My swollen and split knuckles are all the verification I need. And the massive hangover. And waking up in a jail cell where they left us to sleep it off. Both of us, Jason and me. Jason was picked up earlier by an irate-looking Connie.

I’ve been left here to stew. Bitter resentment churns in my hollow stomach. Resentment at who? I can’t decide. Everyone. Every person I’ve ever known.

Trina picks me up.

“Where’s Fitz?” I ask.

Trina’s silence is deadly. She doesn’t answer any of my questions until they’ve passed me back my wallet and pocketknife and she’s burst through the doors out into the misting rain.

“Fitz is on his way to Boston with the rest of the tour. Left first thing this morning.”

I chew on that for a bit, wincing as I try to slide my wallet into my back pocket. I flex my fingers and school my features when I see Trina watching me. With a beep beep, her car’s unlocked, and I slide into the passenger side. She doesn’t put the keys in the ignition, instead taking a deep breath.

I’m expecting screaming. Instead, she exhales with a shudder.

“Trina, I—”

She holds up a finger and removes her glasses with her other hand, revealing puffy, red-ringed eyes. I swallow hard. Shit. I’ve never seen her look so not put-together. The world could shrivel in a nuclear strike and Trina Hamilton’s makeup wouldn’t dare smudge.

“First, I need to tell you that your mug shot is all over the news this morning. Second, while Annie, Fitz, and Kacey left early enough, the fact that Willows’ underage drummer, Jason Diaz, was with you and intoxicated has dragged their name into this shit show. Third, out of respect for your brother, the officer on duty managed to slant the story to keep Maggie and Taps out of the news and out of the courtroom for serving minors. I was able to assure them you had started drinking long before you arrived and long after you left.

“Which means,” she continues in a tired recitation, her voice wavering, “the damage has been mostly contained to your own livelihood. Of course, Connie’s been called in to deal with Diaz and that mess. But, as it’s his first indiscretion and you were there to be a terrible influence, I suspect he won’t face too much media repercussion.”