The Promise of Paradise - By Allie Boniface Page 0,54
slid down just enough in the back to reveal the top of a bright pink thong.
The bartender glanced from her to Eddie and back again. Grunting what Eddie supposed was an approval, he filled two mugs and slid them over. “On the house.”
“Bullshit.” Eddie tucked a five into the guy’s tip jar.
The bartender shrugged. “Suit yourself. But it’s ladies’ night, two for one.”
Eddie didn’t respond. He ran a quick hand over his hair. What the hell had happened to him today? How had he managed to wake up next to a woman he thought he was falling for and end up hours later sitting next to his ex-girlfriend?
He didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t. The fury of finding out that he’d just opened his soul to someone who was a shadow, a pretend version, a liar, a fake, ate away at his guts. He wanted to puke.
Cass’s warm hand crept onto Eddie’s knee and stayed there. “How about a shot?” she whispered into his ear. “For old time's sake?”
He shrugged. “Sure.” What else did he have to do tonight but get rip-roaring drunk? “Tequila. And two cheeseburgers,” he told the bartender. “One with the works. One with ketchup only.”
Cass smiled sideways at him. “You remembered.” Her hand slid up Eddie’s leg. Of course he remembered. He remembered every damn thing. That was the problem.
* * *
Ash lay face down on her bed, listening to Paradise’s only jazz station. She should have told Marty she’d take an extra shift. Or she should have stopped down there anyway, had a beer, and listened to J.T.’s stupid jokes. Anything to get out of the house. Anything to keep her mind off what had happened that morning.
Instead she’d eaten cold pizza around seven and crawled into bed. She’d pulled the blinds down tight, not wanting a sliver of light to sneak in and brighten her mood. Now the room pressed down with heavy, unpleasant humidity. She tried to take a breath and tasted stale cotton. Tucking rumpled blankets around her shoulders, she turned to face the wall. The blues rolled over her, thick as murky midnight, and she gave in to tears.
Cass. He went to Cass. She couldn’t stop replaying Frank’s words and the awful, pitying expression on the man’s face. Worse, she couldn’t stop thinking about Eddie’s ex-girlfriend, with the red hair and the tight clothes and the come-hither look she didn’t bother to hide.
He dated her once. It only made sense that he’d go back to her. What guy wouldn’t want a woman who looked like that? She drew a forearm across her face and told herself to stop crying.
“…and that was Miles Davis, with his classic rendition of ‘Bye Bye Blackbird,’” the DJ said. “To all you lonely lovers out there, this next one’s for you…”
Ash looked at the clock. Ten minutes to twelve. She shut off the radio and listened. Nothing but silence from the apartment below. No music patterning the floor with vibrations. No kitten paws racing around the hardwood. No laughter. No voices. Nothing at all.
She fell back against the pillows. “Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe Colin’s right. Maybe there really is nothing here for me.”
What was the point in staying? She supposed part of her had always known that she’d have to go back to Boston. She just didn’t think it would be this soon. Well, tomorrow she'd give Marty two weeks’ notice. That should give him enough time to find another night manager. By then, the summer would be almost over, and they could sublet her apartment to someone else. If she told Helen she’d be out by mid-August, maybe the landlord could rent to a college student. Ash rolled over and tried to slow her breath, to still her heartbeat, to find a rhythm that would carry her toward sleep. And she tried not to think of all the things she’d miss when she said goodbye.
* * *
“Shit.” Eddie stumbled off his barstool and spilled a bowl of peanuts onto the floor.
Cass leaned against him. Her perfume wafted up and reminded him of other days, earlier days, when he’d breathed in that scent and wanted more, always more, of it. “You can’t drive home.”
“No kidding.” Double-shit. He hadn’t meant to get so slobbering drunk. He’d just wanted a few shots, some beers to chase them down, something to mellow him out so he could forget Ashley Kirtland. Or Ashton Kirk. Or whatever the hell her name really was.
“There’s a motel next block over,” offered