Faded (Faded Duet Book 1) Page 4

  I bite the inside of my cheek before I do something stupid, like offer to introduce her to the best spots in town. I’m not the kind of guy who offers tour-guide services. The only Nashville landmark I introduce women to with any kind of regularity is the stunning vista that is my bedroom ceiling. So… why do I have to fight so damn hard to keep the words ‘Let me show you around sometime’ contained?

  “Have you lived here long?” she asks.

  “Twenty-two years. Born and raised in the city limits.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.” I laugh, but it’s hollow. If she only knew how hard I’ve been trying to get out of this place…

  “Trust me, you’re lucky. Objectively lucky.” Her lips twist. “If you’d grown up where I did, you’d never regret living in a place like this. You’d never want to go back.”

  “And where is it you’re from?”

  “Oh, a little town called Haw—” She stops herself abruptly, mouth clamping down on the rest of her words. It’s hard to tell for sure in the dark, but I’d swear she’s gone pale.

  “You okay?” I ask, brows lifting.

  She nods faintly but doesn’t say another word. She’s got secrets in her eyes, buried not too far beneath the surface. Strangely enough, I find myself wanting to know what they are.

  That’s a first. I’m usually a fan of the screw now, ask questions never strategy. It keeps life the way I want it — untangled and drama free.

  “Shoot!” She grimaces down at her watch. “I actually have to go. My break’s over. Nice talking to you, though.”

  She turns to leave. Regret swamps me. I don’t even know her damn name. I search for something — anything — to say to get her to stay, even for another second, but my mind is a total blank.

  Me, Ryder Woods… legendary smooth-talker, shameless flirt, star of countless female sexual fantasies… Tongue-tied over a cocktail waitress?

  It’s almost ludicrous. If Aiden or Lincoln witnessed this, they’d never believe it.

  She hesitates for a beat on the top step and glances back at me, silhouetted by the light spilling out from the hallway as she holds the door ajar.

  “You were great tonight, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I manage to grunt.

  Eloquent. Real fucking eloquent.

  “And… whatever it is that made you come out here looking so upset…” Her eyes are luminous in the dark, like an owl’s. “I hope it gets better.”

  With that she spins on her heel, braid whipping like a flag in the air behind her, and disappears inside, leaving me alone in the dark summer night, my pulse pounding a bit too fast inside my veins. For a long time, I stare at the space where she stood… and, for the life of me, I can’t remember what pissed me off so bad I found myself out here in the first place.

  Chapter Four

  felicity

  It’s two in the morning when the last act of the night strums the final chord of their set; nearly two thirty by the time we manage to get everyone out the door so the staff can close up. We all work in silence, too exhausted to speak after eight straight hours of taking orders. Jay restocks the bar with bottles from the back room. Carly organizes the stage equipment and sound booth. Adam is in his office counting the cash and going over the schedule. Isaac floats from task to task like a shadow, silently overseeing everything. I sweep the floor, wipe down tables, and try not to think too much about a certain musician who’s been haunting my thoughts since I left him in the dark.

  Frankly, I don’t have time to think about Ryder. Not his broad shoulders or the close-trimmed crop of facial hair that surrounds his smirking mouth. Not the way his voice rasped out in the night, smoother than silk against my skin. Not the distracting fact that he’s got two different colored irises: one blue, one brown, both capable of seeing straight through me.

  I have far more important matters to dwell on, at the moment.

  It’s only now, in the quiet aftermath of this chaotic first shift, that reality boils back to the surface. I’ve been too busy taking drink orders to spare any thought to trivial things… like the fact that I don’t know a soul in Nashville outside the four walls of this establishment… and the reality that I don’t even have a place to stay tonight.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I didn’t anticipate Isaac hiring me on the spot this afternoon. I thought I’d have a day or two to sort out my living situation before I started working here. But I couldn’t exactly say no when he offered. And now…

  I’m totally screwed.

  I’ll probably end up sleeping on a park bench, shivering in the darkness and hoping I don’t encounter anyone with nefarious intentions. True, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept outside, but I’m not exactly relishing the prospect of a muggy, mosquito-filled night in an unfamiliar city.

  “You weren’t half bad tonight, kid.”

  I jump at the sudden sound of Isaac’s voice, spilling a small pile of salt on the tabletop in the process.

  “Oh, sugar!” I curse, sweeping my mess into the palm of my hand. “Sorry about that, I’m not usually such a klutz…”

  Isaac’s brows are by his hairline. “You’re aware that’s salt… not sugar?”

  “I know it’s salt. I meant oh, sugar as in oh, sh..oot.” I finish lamely, unable to bring myself to say the word even now. “Old habit, I guess. My Gran always replaces her swears with sweets. Donuts instead of damn. Or, if she’s really revved up, fudge instead of fu… Well, I’m sure you get the idea.”

  He stares at me blankly.

  “I’m not a priss or anything,” I say defensively. “I don’t mind if other people swear around me. But every time I try, I think of Gran saying, ‘If you talk like a sailor you’ll never marry one,’ and I can’t seem to get the word past my lips.” I swallow hard. “Her first husband was a Navy man, you see.”

  Isaac’s brows are so far up his forehead, they’re about to disappear.

  “Not that I want to get married anytime soon. Or ever,” I say hurriedly, unsure how I even landed myself on this topic. I blame the lack of sleep. Lack of food. Lack of anything resembling a proper life plan.

  I bite my lip so I’ll stop talking.

  “So, it’s real then,” Isaac grunts.

  “Wh-what?”

  “The sweet-as-pie act. It’s not an act at all.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Course you don’t.” He sighs deeply. “Frankly, I didn’t expect you to last the night. But, sweet or not, you’re no pushover. You can handle yourself in a dense crowd, you’re fast on your feet, you messed up fewer orders than girls who’ve been here five times as long, and the staff likes you.”

  My eyes dart toward the door to the back room, where Adam disappeared a few minutes ago. Seeing my expression, Isaac chuckles. “Ah, hell, don’t worry about Adam. He treats everyone like they’re gum stuck to his shoe.”

  I laugh. “Oh, good. I won’t take it personally, then.”

  “Point is, you surprised me. I think you’re a good fit here.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity, Isaac. I appreciate it.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t have my newest employee sleeping on the streets.”

  My cheeks flame with embarrassment. I’d forgotten that, while storming out of here earlier in a moment of high temper, I let slip my current housing situation.

  “I’ll be fine,” I swallow. “I’ll use the tips I made tonight to rent a room. There’s nothing in my budget around here, but there’s a place a mile or so away— The Southern Comfort Inn? I looked it up before I booked my bus ticket.”

  “You can’t stay there,” Isaac barks gruffly.

  My hand curls into a fist around the small pile of salt in my palm. “Why’s that?”

  “Let’s just say the typical Southern Comfort clientele pay by the hour.” He looks almost embarrassed, red staining the skin of his neck. “Girl like you doesn’t belong in a place like that.�
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  “A bed’s a bed. I’m not fussy,” I murmur. “And I’m sure I’ve slept in worse places.”

  He stares at me for a beat, a hundred questions he’d like to ask evident in his eyes. He suppresses them — for now, at least. “I suppose you plan to walk there alone, in the middle of the night?”

  My lips twist. “Unless I’ve suddenly developed the powers of teleportation…”

  “Rough part of town.”

  “I’m not some wilting flower. I can handle myself.”

  “That may be. But I won’t sleep tonight if I let you walk out of here by yourself, headed toward what’s, for all intents and purposes, a whorehouse. Folks say I’m a mean bastard, and they’re mostly right, but even I have my limits.” He pauses, staring at me. The expression on his face tells me he’s already regretting whatever he’s about to say. “There’s a room upstairs. I used to crash there on late nights in my younger years, when I first opened this place. It’s a dusty mess, hasn’t been used in a damn near decade. Mattress is lumpier than my ex-wife’s mashed potatoes. Not much bigger than a closet, really.” He blows out a breath. “But you can stay there, at least until you get on your feet.”

  I blink, stunned into silence by the offer.

  He rubs the back of his neck. “There’s a separate set of stairs that lead to the lot out back, so you can come and go as you please during the day. Just make sure you lock up when you leave. And don’t be late tomorrow night. It’s Friday so we’ll be slammed. Plus, Dotty has the flu, which means her three kids will have it soon if they don’t already. I’ll need you to take over her shifts for a while.”

  I nod, feeling too overwhelmed to speak.

  “Grab a granola bar from the staff kitchen before you go,” he orders in a brusque tone. “You get any thinner, you’ll disappear.”

  “Isaac…” His kindness is so unexpected, I can’t help it. My eyes start to sting.

  “Ah, hell. Don’t do that.” Seeing the tears glossing over my eyes, Isaac is now blushing in earnest. It’s almost comical to see such a big bear of a man undone by a few waterworks.

  “S-sorry,” I hiccup, looking up at the ceiling to keep the tears from trickling out. “I just—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. Just take the damn key. I’m going home.”

  With that, he presses something into my palm and walks away. I stare down at the brass key sitting atop the small pile of pale white salt until the tears start to fall in earnest. Just like that, in the span of a single day, I have a job. I have a home. And, for the first time in as long as I can remember…

  I have hope.

  “You need a ride somewhere?” Carly asks as we step through the back exit into the staff lot.

  “No.” I clutch the key a bit more firmly, trying not to drop it. I’m already juggling my bag and my guitar. “Thanks though.”

  We walk in silence, listening as Adam locks the door behind us. My eyes linger for a moment on the spot where I stood with Ryder a few hours ago, before the end of my break forced me to bolt. He never came back inside, after that. I wonder where he went… and who he went with…

  A scowl contorts my features.

  It’s none of your business if he went home with a hundred girls and hosted the biggest orgy known to man, I scold myself. He’s not yours. He never will be.

  “What are you frowning at?” Carly asks.

  “Nothing.” I force my face into a blank mask.

  “Uh huh.” Carly makes a doubtful sound, but doesn’t push for details. “You just moved here, right?”

  “Today.” I nod. “Or… yesterday, I guess, since it’s now officially tomorrow.”

  “Damn, girl. One day in Nashville and you’re already working at The Nightingale? It took me six months to get an interview. How’d you swing that?”

  “I just got lucky, I guess.”

  She laughs. “Well, mark me down as impressed. You have a place to crash tonight?”

  “I’m actually staying here.” I jerk my chin toward the set of rickety wooden stairs that hug the back side of the building. They look like they haven’t been used in quite a while. And by quite a while I mean since the 1980s.

  “Here?” Adam interjects, catching up with us. “What do you mean, here?”

  “Isaac said I could crash in the room over the bar.” I hold up the key, proof of my new lodgings.

  Adam’s face twists in displeasure. “Why would he do that?”

  “Adam.” Carly elbows him. “Lay off.”

  “I’m just wondering how the new girl is suddenly privy to free rent on top of her tips. I didn’t realize I was running a charity, here.”

  “It’s only temporary,” I murmur. “Until I find somewhere else to stay.”

  He stares at me with a scowl marring his handsome face. It’s strange someone could be so attractive on the outside, yet so unattractive where it counts.

  “Whatever,” he mutters, heading for his truck. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. Be on time.”

  I swallow down a snippy retort, knowing it won’t do me any favors to engage with him. But in my head I tell him to go fudge himself, as Gran would say.

  “Don’t let him get to you,” Carly murmurs as we watch him peel out of the parking lot. “He’ll warm up.”

  “Really?”

  “Eventually. Maybe. Possibly.”

  “How encouraging.” I snort. “Bye, Carly.”

  “See you tomorrow, Felicity.”

  She climbs behind the wheel of an older model sedan, yawning wide. I fight a jaw-cracking yawn of my own as I make my way up the back stairs and slide the key into the lock. It sticks at first, and there’s a brief moment of panic when I think I might wind up sleeping on a park bench after all… but with some jiggling and a forceful bump of my hip against the frame, the lock finally gives. The door swings inward with a rusty groan.

  I fumble for a light switch in the dark. A shadeless bulb mounted against the ceiling flickers to life and I get my first look at my new crash pad. It’s no more than two hundred square feet. The air is stale from lack of circulation. Dust coats every surface my eyes land on.

  To my left, there’s a narrow twin bed frame, stripped bare of all but a paper-thin mattress. A wooden rocking chair sits by the lone window. The three-drawer dresser looks as old as I am; the fogged antique mirror mounted above it is at least twice my age. There’s no kitchen, just a partially enclosed bathroom nook with a sink, shower, and toilet — all of which are streaked with rust stains and grime.

  Home sweet home.

  I take a step inside, set down my guitar beside the dresser, and sneeze when a cloud of dust wafts up into my face. It’s not exactly the Ritz, but I’m in no position to complain. I quickly lock the door behind me, the flimsy catch-chain offering merely the illusion of security. Since there’s nothing in here worth stealing, I should be safe enough. Still, I haul the heavy wooden rocking chair in front of the door as a precaution.

  Old habits die hard.

  I yank the sun-faded curtain across the window and strip quickly out of my black sneakers and work uniform. There’s a single sweatshirt in the small bag of clothes I brought with me when I left Hawkins. I hug it to my chest for a long moment before pulling it over my head. It smells like home. To most people, I’m sure that would be a comfort. To me, the scent sends a parade of memories flashing in front of my eyes that I’d do almost anything to forget.

  The flare of a match striking in the dark.

  The hiss of boiling liquid.

  The creak of splitting wood.

  A man screaming.

  A woman sobbing.

  A door slamming shut at my back.

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I yank the garment over my head and set my backpack down beside the narrow bed frame. The mattress smells like mildew and the springs squeak in protest as I sit down on the edge. I pull a granola bar from my bag and tear off the wrapper with fingers that are shaky from hunger. It’s got raisins, which I normally
avoid at all costs, but at the moment I’m too tired to pick them out and too hungry to care. I swallow the entire thing in about four seconds flat. It does precious little to alleviate the pangs in my empty stomach.

  My muscles are aching and my eyelids feel leaden as I curl into a tight ball on the lumpy, stinking mattress with my knees tucked up to my chest and my head pillowed on my arms. For a long while, I stare up at the blooming water stains on the ceiling, thinking about how much my life has changed in the past twenty four hours… and how much it hasn’t.

  New city. New job. New place to lay my head.

  Same uncertainty. Same crushing doubt. Same chair wedged beneath a doorknob in the darkness to keep out the monsters.

  I don’t turn off the light as I lay there, praying for sleep to come.

  When it does, my dreams are full of blood and fire and death.

  My first few weeks in Nashville pass in a blur. I settle into my new life as Felicity Wilkes so easily, I sometimes forget about Felicity Wilde, the sad girl with the tragic backstory. I know it’s only a matter of time before my past catches up to me, but I try not to think about that. Instead, I focus on the present. Small details of my new world here in Nashville: morning walks past the open-air cafe around the corner, the air perfumed by fresh biscuits and grits; afternoons at the park, watching dogs chase balls and toddlers chase bubbles; nights at the bar, serving drinks and expanding my musical education.

  It takes a while, but eventually I stop looking over my shoulder every time I step out my doorway, or flinching every time the phone behind the bar rings. I stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and actually start living. Breathing. Even laughing occasionally when Carly makes a joke at Adam’s expense as we clean up from another shift of cocktails and country songs.

  I’ve worked at The Nightingale every night since my arrival, usually stumbling upstairs to my room around three in the morning by the time the bar’s restocked and the floors are swept. After that first night, I discovered a thin wool blanket tucked away inside one of the dresser drawers along with a misshapen pillow, so my bed is no longer entirely threadbare when I collapse onto it face-first, my feet aching and numb from nine straight hours on them, my stomach protesting noisily from a steady diet of tap water and granola bars pilfered from the staff break room.