Night Owls (24 page)

Breathing heavily, he broke the kiss—barely—and said against my lips, “Okay?”

I put my hand over his to hold it in place.

“You feel fantastic,” he murmured, his breath teasing my neck.

“You sound surprised.”

“I’ve fantasized about you in every possible way, but the real thing . . . God, Bex. You’re so soft. And—oh. Well.”

I gasped. I couldn’t help it.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, running his thumb over my nipple.

I didn’t answer; he was too full of himself, sounding all pleased with his discovery. A field of goose bumps bloomed across my arms and warmed me from his hot mouth, down my chest, my
stomach . . . and lower. I knew that heat followed the same path in him, because he stiffened against my hip, which excited me even more.

As rain drummed against the car, he slouched lower in the seat and silently urged me to straddle his lap. I didn’t care that the steering wheel poked my back when I got carried away. We
kissed forever, leisurely, until his big hands palmed my butt, greedily tugging me against him. The bump in my jeans where the seams converged between my legs was wedged between the softness of me
and the hardness of him.

“You’re killing me,” he murmured huskily against my ear.

I closed my eyes and grinned. “Am I?”

“I want you.”

“I know.”

His low laugh sent chills down my neck. “I did warn you I wasn’t a monk.”

“Definitely not if we keep this up.”

Exhaling heavily, he pulled back and cupped my cheeks in his hands. “We should probably cool it anyway. I promised Katherine the Great I’d get you to work on time, and the rain will
gum up traffic on the Bay Bridge. Plus, it’s going to take me a couple of minutes to . . . calm down.”

I cleared my throat and tried not to smile. “I don’t think I could stand up right now if I tried. Just hold me a little while longer, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, and gathered me closer. I rested my head on his shoulder and breathed in the scent of his old leather jacket while our breathing slowed and synced. Everything that
had happened with my father felt a million miles away. Like it had happened to me in another lifetime. Jack made me feel safe and strong and good and calm.

Maybe he was my lake, too.

TWO DAYS LATER, I COVERED FOR ANOTHER GIRL AT
Alto Market and worked a ten-hour shift. By hour number eight, I was completely exhausted. How did Mom
work twelve hours like it was nothing? I didn’t understand, but as I scanned my kajillionth block of imported cheese, I wondered just how much I understood about my mom in general.

I googled cabarets in Santa Monica and found the Freckled Rose, a cabaret slash piano bar formerly owned by one Suzi Cameron. Guess Dad was right, because it really didn’t look like a
strip club. Most of its performers were older than my parents, and they were all wearing (awful) clothes. I
so
wanted to call Mom out on this, but I just couldn’t bring myself to
tell her how I found out. So I told Heath instead.

“Sometimes people exaggerate when they’re upset” was all he said.

Exaggerate? Exaggerating was saying you ate a whole sleeve of Girl Scout cookies when you really ate only half. But I couldn’t get into it with Heath, because he asked me how I’d
tracked it down. Because of the way he was grilling me about it, I didn’t feel like revealing my meeting with Dad. So I just said I was poking around and found it online.

“Just drop it, Bex,” Heath told me. “Even if Mom exaggerated about the cabaret, Dad cheated on her and left all of us. We don’t have a father. Big deal. It’s just
life.”

He was probably right.

Ms. Lopez checked in on me after our last rush of customers for the night. “Hanging in there? Feet sore?”

“I should’ve bought some of those inserts you told me about,” I said, stretching my neck side to side.

“No, you should’ve told Mary to stop dumping her shifts on you.” She clicked the top of a ladybug pen and clipped it to her apron. “Did you miss your anatomy drawing
session tonight? How is that going?”

“I missed it, but it’s okay. I’m almost finished. The one good thing about doing a million sketches before I decided on the right angle is that I’ve got it down perfect
now. One more session for the final details and I’ll be done.”

“Just in time for the art contest?”

“A week to spare,” I said with a smile. I was feeling a lot better about it, especially after my last drawing session, during which a group of med students came over to my end of the
lab to check out my illustrations of Minnie. They acted impressed. Like,
really
impressed.

I was going to win that damn contest. That scholarship money was mine. As long as I kept my head down and didn’t let any emotional family weirdness distract me. Which wasn’t
easy.

“Hey,” I said. “Can I ask you something about Joy?” She was Ms. Lopez’s daughter.

“Sure.”

“Would you ever lie to her about something big? Like if, let’s say, your mother stole money from you—”

“My mother? She’s deeply religious. She would never steal.”

“Let’s just say she did, and let’s say you were hurt by it and worried that she might be a bad influence on Joy. Would you lie to Joy and tell her that her grandmother was
worse than she really was, just to discourage Joy from having anything to do with her?”

“Did you steal staples from the storeroom? I thought it was someone from the new janitorial service.”

I groaned. “No, I didn’t take any staples. Why would I need—” I shook my head in frustration. “It doesn’t have to be stealing. Maybe your mother’s got a
violent temper—”

Ms. Lopez made a little anguished noise.

“I’m just trying to say, is there any reason you’d tell Joy a lie or an exaggeration about someone in your family because you thought it was the right thing for your
daughter?”

Ms. Lopez stared down at me through narrowed eyes. “I would do anything to keep Joy safe and happy.”

“So the answer is yes?”

“Why don’t you ask your own mother the same question?” she said, pointing one perfect, glossy red nail in my direction as she strolled away from the register with a knowing
glance.

Dammit.

What good would it do me to mend things with Dad anyway? Would it magically make me all better? And how did I expect to even try? Would I sneak around, meeting him and his little Suzi-Q for
lunch on the weekends? Because no way in hell would Mom ever let me go see him with her blessing. And if she found out I’d been seeing him behind her back, it would wreck her.

It would tear my mom and me apart.

And Dad wasn’t worth that risk, because she was there and he wasn’t. She’d stayed and he hadn’t. And that was that.

A half hour before my double shift ended, I was counting my register till in the office when I got a text from Jack:
Is Nurse Katherine working a night shift
tomorrow?

I replied:
Think so. Why?

He texted:
My parents are leaving for Sacramento tomorrow afternoon and they won’t be back until noon the next day.

I reread the text several times. What was he saying? Was he . . . did he mean . . . ? Maybe it was just an opportunity for us to spend time alone, nothing more. Did I want there to be something
more? I would’ve answered, “God, yes,” to that question five minutes earlier, but now that he was putting it out there (was he?), my nerves twanged.

When I didn’t reply right away, he texted again:
Do *you* work tomorrow?

Setting down a stack of twenties, I leaned over my till to squint at the schedule tacked to the bulletin board. I’d just worked a double for Mary, so she could damn well return the favor.
I texted:
I don’t now.

Jack’s reply came a couple of minutes later:
I can pick you up any time after 4 p.m.

“I POINTED THE CAMERAS UP THE STREET,” JACK SAID
when he saw me eyeing the one over the Vincents’ side gate the following night.
“Just don’t step past the edge of the fence and you’re golden.”

“You take sneaking to a whole new level.”

“If your father was king of the city, you would, too.”

Since I had to wait for Mom to leave for her graveyard shift before I could escape with Jack, it was right at 8:00 p.m. and still light outside. “Your neighbor’s watching
us.”

Jack waved and mumbled “nosy bastard” under his breath. “Let’s go in through the front door so it doesn’t look like we’re doing anything wrong.”

“Are we?” I asked. Because it was all I could think about since he’d asked me over—doing wrong things with him. And when he sent me his standard good night text last
night, I was doing more than thinking. I considered texting him back with an explicit description but lost my nerve. Now I sort of wished I had, because maybe I’d have a better idea of his
intentions tonight. The ride over here gave me no clue; we just chatted about work (boring) and how Jillian was doing (pretty good) and why his parents were in Sacramento (a fund-raising dinner
for education). We didn’t even kiss.

“Are we doing anything wrong?” he repeated thoughtfully. He was having trouble getting the key in the lock. He showed me his shaky hand and laughed at himself. “I guess that
means a part of me must hope so. That milkmaid thing is sexy as hell, by the way.”

It was the most flattering of my braid repertoire. I kept the plaits loose and pulled out a few wisps for a natural and romantic look. Knowing he liked them made heat flash through me. “I
feel like there’s a good joke here about the farmer’s daughter, but I’m too anxious to think of one,” I admitted.

“Let’s just . . . uh, get inside before Mr. Martinez marshals the rest of the neighborhood watch.”

He finally got the front door open. I stepped inside and looked around while he locked up behind us. We stood on dark wood floors in a foyer. Buttery-gold walls were loaded with large paintings
in gilded frames. A modern wooden staircase shot up through the floors, dominating the narrow space, and because it was open, I could peer through at the floors above and below. Beyond the
staircase was a living room with a fireplace and a wall of windows that looked over the decks in the back. We were on the second story, and I spied the roof of Jack’s guesthouse bedroom at
the far corner of the yard.

“My mom collects art,” he said as I stared up a painting of a crazy-colored chair. “Mostly California artists. She really digs old chairs.”

“Yes, I can see that,” I said diplomatically, spotting other chair paintings farther into the home.

“It’s kooky, I know. I’ll give you the VIP tour. You’ll see more chairs than you ever dreamed possible.”

He started at the kitchen, which wasn’t much bigger than ours but gleamed with top-of-the-line appliances, polished marble, and custom cabinetry. The floating wooden bridge I’d seen
on the Fourth of July connected to a back door there. “We used to have a lot of cocktail parties on the deck,” Jack noted.

Used to. He didn’t comment on what had happened in this kitchen to put an end to those parties, but I couldn’t help staging it in my head, wondering if I was standing where Jillian
had stabbed her mom. We breezed through the living room and headed downstairs, which was basically one big open room divided into smaller areas: an entertainment area for watching movies, another
fireplace lounge, a bar, lots of the chairs he promised (along with more paintings of chairs), and a billiards table. “No one even knows how to play pool,” Jack admitted.

I gestured to a receiver behind the glass doors of a built-in cabinet. “That’s some stereo.”

“Music can be piped into the room of your choice, or all of them. Dad uses it for parties, so music can stream through the entire house. He has an old record collection and the turntable
there.”

“Gee, the mayor’s a hipster. Who knew?”

“Yeaaaah,
no.
He likes the Eagles.”

I laughed. “My mom still thinks Depeche Mode is cutting edge.”

“How about radio instead? Pick a decade.” He flipped channels featuring songs from the 1940s to the 1990s. We settled on the 1950s, partly because “Heartbreak Hotel” was
playing, and I reached up and ran my fingers through Jack’s Elvis hair. “Do you sing, too?” I teased.

“Not outside a shower,” he said, capturing my wrists and pulling my hands to his chest. “Hope you don’t have dreams of a poetic, guitar-playing boyfriend who writes you
bad love songs, because I am terrible at all that.”

“Do you even know me at all? I like anatomical hearts, not valentines.”

He glanced down at my heart . . . or at my cleavage—hard to tell which. I was wearing a black shirt that usually tilted off one shoulder, but because I still had my jacket on, the
“tilt” had shifted to the front and revealed more than I’d intended. Or just the right amount.

I felt a little self-conscious, so I pulled away and strolled around the room. I spotted a door in a darkened corner. Wrong thing.

“Before you ask, that’s the door to the basement, and, no, I won’t go down there. Like, ever again.”