I’m so absorbed in images of my face buried in those magnificent tits that it takes me a second to process what she said.
My eyes snap to hers. “Wait…what?”
She reaches across the bar, offering me a hand. “Lilah Morgan.”
There’s a full second all I can do is stare, wondering if this is one of those split personality things you hear about sometimes. And in that second, through the dim lighting, I take in all the tiny details—a dark mole at the outer corner of her right eye; her eyes, silver instead of blue; the missing white crescent-shaped scar above Destiny’s right eyebrow; and lips, a little fuller than I remember—which are smirking at me now.
“You’re not Destiny,” I say as it all clicks.
It’s not a question, but she shakes her head. “No. I am most definitely not Destiny.”
“Twins?” I ask.
She cocks her head playfully. “What do you think?”
“You’ve got to be. You’re fucking identical except for the eyes.” I tap my forehead. “And you’re missing a scar.”
Her perfect blond eyebrow rises in amusement. “She’s the pretty one and I’m the smart one.”
I bark out a laugh as I reach across and shake her hand. “Bran Silo. Good to meet you.”
She doesn’t let go of my hand for a second after we’re done shaking—just long enough to send a clear message that she’s interested.
A knot forms in my gut when I realize I’ve got a situation. Destiny and I have an understanding, but regardless, I’m pretty sure fucking her sister would be way outside the bounds of gentlemanly behavior. Not that anyone would ever mistake me for a gentleman. “Destiny never mentioned she had a sister.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” She takes another drink, nearly polishing it off in a few big gulps.
I tip my head at it her glass. “Another?”
“My limit is one,” she says, pushing her glass toward me. “Just Coke this time, thanks.”
Carol sweeps by on her way to the kitchen, dropping an order on my bar. “Thought you left,” she says to Lilah without slowing down. “Careful or your favorite customer might ask for you,” she adds, jerking her head at Mr. Hendricks as she disappears through the swinging door.
I laugh as I scoop ice into Lilah’s glass and fill it with Coke. “Good to know I’m not the only one.”
Lilah shrugs. “Happens all the time.” She slides out of her chair, lifting the guitar case. “So do you want to hear me play or what?”
I look around the crowded room, loud with chatter, drowning out the background music. “We don’t generally have live entertainment,” I say, which is really an understatement. We’ve
never
had live entertainment. But for some reason, I’m not willing to shut Lilah down so fast.
When my eyes find her again, annoyed impatience shines loud and clear out of her gaze. “So that’s a no?”
I feel my mouth pull into a cocky half-smile. “I didn’t say that.”
She opens her case and pulls out her guitar, unabashedly climbing through the window I left ajar for her. I watch as she sets herself up on the stool and rests the guitar in her lap, gripping it softly but confidently. She starts strumming, and I expect her to be discrete, since this is basically an audition, but there’s not a shred of self-consciousness or embarrassment anywhere in her disposition as she begins to belt out lyrics—an old No Doubt song that I can’t remember the name of.
The way she plays, as if on instinct, the passion in her voice, and the fact that she’s really fucking good, starts to turn heads at the tables closest to us. As they quiet and listen, more tables still, and soon the only thing she’s competing to be heard over is the Kat Country on the speakers. But she doesn’t decrease her volume. If anything, as eyes find her, she becomes louder, feeding off the attention.
I reach under the bar and click off the stereo, then lean onto the back counter and cross my arms, listening as she finishes one song and launches into the next.
A guy at the bar pulls a five from his pocket and flags me down with it. I grab his beer mug, but he shakes his head. “Is there a tip jar?” he asks with a nod toward Lilah.
I pull a fresh mug from under the bar. He slips the five inside and I set it at the end of the bar near Lilah. She cuts me a smile and her eyes slide down my body as she sings.
And
fuck me
. I lean my hands on the bar and press against the lower counter when my dick won’t yield to my will. Without a doubt, everything Destiny has going on, Lilah’s got that and more.
Chapter 2
Lilah
Destiny’s mentioned Bran occasionally since she started working at Sam Hill last week, but she never mentioned how brooding, unapproachable, and totally ominous he is—over six feet of pure testosterone, packaged in ripped muscles and a solid frame. His face is all hard lines and dark stubble. And nearly black eyes smolder like hunks of burning coal under the thickest lashes I’ve ever seen. Based on the five o’clock shadow and the ghosts roughening his features, he’s got to be mid-twenties. Which is old enough that my body shouldn’t be reacting this way. But that knowledge doesn’t stop my blood from boiling with every scorching glance he gives me across the bar.
And he’s giving me a lot of them. Long, shameless perusals of my body as I play. I’m on my eighth song and he hasn’t told me to stop yet. He even put a tip jar out and people are shoving bills into it.
So I keep smiling and playing.
I never really got how our parents ended up together. Dad is way older than Mom and used to be fat, before he started tweaking, with a round face, long nose, watery gray eyes, and male-pattern balding that started in his twenties, based on the pictures I’ve seen. After I saw that Barbie
Rapunzel
movie when I was four, I was totally convinced that Mom was really Rapunzel and had gotten lost from her kingdom. The gene pool was kind to Destiny and me and we’ve got Mom’s coloring and kickass body—the only thing either of us really has going for us.
So I put it on display for the hot bartender.
I spread my legs as I readjust on the stool between songs, and a shudder ripples through me when Bran’s simmering gaze follows the rise of my skirt hem.
There’s been a few times in the past I’ve had to use my body to get what I needed. A little flirting and flaunting goes a long way. But no one’s ever made me
hope
it would come to that before. Let’s just say, if I have to flirt my way into this gig, it won’t break my heart.
I debate whether to do some of my original music, but my best friend Shiloh and I found out in the BART and bus stations we used to play, before Destiny dragged me out here to the sticks, that people tip better when they know the songs. I sum up my audience and pick songs from their teen years—early 2000s for this group. Remind them of their glory days and tips double.
So I launch into some Mariah.
I’m not a great singer, but I can hold my own. We used to make bank in San Francisco because of Shiloh. We called ourselves LohLah and had dreams of making it big someday. She’s one of those rare people that you just know is going to be a star. Her voice is so hot it could melt steel and so pure it could shatter glass. But lots of people have great voices. Lo has more—looks, attitude, and a magnetic presence that demands your attention.
She tried to talk me into going with her when she auditioned for
The Voice
this summer, but I don’t have what she does. From the start, I knew she was going to make it. She was chosen for the blind auditions in L.A., and one line into her song, all four coaches’ chairs turned. She chose Adam as her coach. I watched her cut like butter through the battle rounds, and her last iTunes release rocketed up to number two, behind Taylor Swift’s new single. She made it into the top twenty last week and the judges are using words like “totally original” and “the real deal” to describe her.
But Lo was more than just my bankroll. She was the only thing that kept my head from imploding when everything went down with my parents. She was my rock.
God, I miss her.
Five hours later, as the bar starts clearing out, I’ve emptied the tip jar into my guitar case three times and it’s overflowing again. When he’s not pouring beer or mixing drinks, Bran’s gaze has been searing me alive from the far corner of the bar. He stands there with his arms crossed over his massive chest, biceps straining the sleeves of his T-shirt, reminding me of a panther crouched in the grass, ready to spring.
“You did okay,” he says, nodding to my tip jar.
“Looks that way.” I gather the bills and loose change from my case and stack it all on the bar. There has to be at least a hundred dollars.
He pushes away from the counter and stalks over to me. “I can’t pay you, so you’ll probably only want to come in Friday and Saturday nights when we’re full.”
The heat of his scrutiny causes a trickle of sweat to roll between my breasts and tighten my nipples. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say, tucking my guitar safely away in its cradle, trying to decide if I want him to notice or not.
“Seven to closing?”
I shrug, knowing I can’t stay until closing, but also wanting to get here after Destiny leaves at six. “Something like that.”
“You’re good,” he says, pulling a pair of tens from his tip jar and shoving them into mine.
I grab the jar and add the cash to the stack. “I know.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see him smirk. “And modest.”
I glower at him. “Explain to me how modesty is going to the pay bills.”
He holds a hand up and his smile changes from a smirk to something more suggestive. “Point taken.”
I really want to follow the suggestion in that smile to see where it leads, but it’s nearly midnight and Destiny’s going to start flipping out if I’m not home soon. My midnight curfew is my own fault, so I really can’t give Destiny too much shit. She got a lot dumped on her when our parents blew up the kitchen, burnt our house to the ground, and ended up in jail for cooking meth. Overnight, she went from avoiding home altogether to essentially becoming a parent.
But it was the day she found out I was tweaking that her over-protectiveness kicked into high gear. Maybe she hopes she can bring me back from the brink. Who knows? Whatever it is, I know her heart’s in the right place, and she’s done okay keeping things together, so I try not to disappoint her too much.
I cross Main Street and walk under the streetlights to the end of the block. The gun and ammo shop is dark inside and the barred security door is locked. But to the left of it is a rickety wooden door that a stiff breeze would probably blow over. I turn the lock and the hinges creak loudly in the midnight quiet as I pull it open. I lock it behind me and climb the steep, narrow staircase to the door at the top, knowing I’m fifteen minutes late and knowing Destiny will be waiting up, expecting an explanation. I push the door open and find her in the kitchen.
“Where have you been, Delilah?” It’s out of her mouth, all maternal concern, before I’m even fully in the door.
“I think I might have gotten a job.” I scratch my head with my free hand. “Sort of.”
Her eyes widen. “Doing?”
I tuck my guitar case into the corner near the door and pull the cash out of my pocket, setting it on the table. “Playing on weekends at the bar you work at.”
“That’s where you were?” she asks, her eyes lifting from the cash to mine, searching for the lie.
“All night,” I reassure her. “Ask Bran.”
Her expression turns sour. “I don’t like the idea of you hanging out in a bar.”
Of course she doesn’t. We came here to get me clear of tweakers. Not that I saw anyone who fits that bill at Sam Hill. “It’s not like there are any BART stations here. It’s the only place I could think of to play.”
When we needed money for the PG&E bill or whatever, Lo and I would go play the subway stations. It’s impossible to find a job in the city if you’re not at least eighteen, but we did well enough with our music that I could cover most of the utility bills. Even though it’s cheaper to live in Oak Crest, Destiny only has one job. Resignation slides over her face as she thinks about our situation and comes to the same conclusion I have.
We need the money.
“You’re sure you’re ready?” she asks with a questioning squint.
“I’m fine now, Destiny. Seriously.” She’s right to ask, because only a week ago I wasn’t. But I’m over it now.
“They’re good people there,” she says with a weary sigh, then scrutinizes me for another few seconds before adding, “As long as it’s only weekends.”
“Bran says that’s probably the only time I’ll make any tips, so…”
The concern on her face is replaced with determination. “Then I’m going over to Oak Crest High on Monday to enroll you. If you’re ready to play at Sam Hill, you’re ready to go back to school.”
I look down at the stack of cash. The thought of starting a new school in the middle of October makes me throw up in my mouth a little. “I was thinking about getting my GED instead.”
“Uh-uh,” she says. When I lift my eyes to hers, she’s shaking her head and scowling. “Mom and Dad already stole your childhood. I’m not letting them take high school from you too.”
I just look at her. “Shouldn’t that be my choice?”
“No.”
Her dismissal pisses me off. I might have screwed up, but I’m not a baby. “There’s nothing I’m going to get out of high school, Destiny. This isn’t like the city. I can get a regular job here…help with the bills and whatever. We won’t always be broke.”
She shakes her head again. “First of all, I think you have to be at least eighteen to get your GED, and second, it’s not just high school, Lilah. It’s your whole future. You’re going to college.”
An incredulous laugh erupts out of me. “Really? Because if I remember right,
you
didn’t go to college.”
Chagrin clouds her face. The bank had foreclosed on our house in Lower Haight way before my parents burned it down, but because there was a kid living there— me—the bank was having trouble evicting us. We all had things we guarded with our lives. Destiny’s was the fact she had a job at McDonald’s and she’d used that money to buy her crappy green Dodge Neon, which she didn’t tell our parents about and never parked near the house. Mom’s was the coffee maker on the counter. Mine was my guitar and my doorknob. Metal had started to go missing around the house—things like cabinet pulls and door handles. Since our parents stopped paying anything a few years before they blew up the house, the only reason we had electricity was because Destiny made payments on the bill. And appliances mysteriously started to go missing. The washer and dryer were the first to go, followed a few months later by a gaping hole in the kitchen when the dishwasher disappeared. The refrigerator survived, as well as the stove, probably because Dad needed it for his new line of work.
For the last few years, it was sort of an open door policy—all my parents’ tweakbuddies crashing on our floor or whatever. Our house always had squatters, and they got so creepy I started keeping a carving knife under my bed. My parents never cooked anything but meth, so they didn’t miss it. Destiny got caught up in that life more than me, I guess because she was older. She barely graduated high school from what I remember.
“I know first and last months’ rent cleaned us out when we moved here.” I nod at the money. “I just want to help.”
She takes a deep breath and steps out from behind the counter. She’s dressed to slay, in fuck-me heels and her shortest, tightest little black dress. “Listen, Li. I’m working on something that will fix everything. I’m going out tonight. Might not be home until morning.”
There are nights that Destiny doesn’t come home, but she’s never brought a guy back to our apartment. I think she’s trying to shelter me, even though she knows I’m no virgin.
Which she discovered at the same time she discovered I was using. Overall, not my best moment.
Tyrell was our apartment manager’s son. We met when I had to walk the rent down to their apartment five months ago because it was already late. He invited me in and we hung out, played some Minecraft, smoked some weed. He was six-five and blacker than night, which I remember thinking was pretty hot. To this day, I still don’t really know how old his was, but I’m guessing maybe nineteen or twenty.
Long story short, I started hanging out there every day after school and it’s the classic story of one thing leading to another. Over a few months, pot led to crack and making out led to sex.
I don’t blame Tyrell. I don’t think we were really in love or anything, but he’s mostly a decent guy. Just a little misguided. I let my like of him fuck with my guidance system too. My mistake.
But, whatever.
Anyway, the pieces started to click—though I’ve never asked her quite which pieces and how—and one day about three weeks ago, Destiny, who was supposed to be at work, was instead pounding on Tyrell’s door. She dragged me, half-naked, out of there, screaming at Tyrell that I was only sixteen and she was calling the cops. She didn’t, but three days later we were in a U-Haul on our way to Oak Crest.
And she hasn’t looked at me the same since.
She inhales and grabs her bag off the other kitchen chair at our tiny table. “Lock up after me. I’ve got my key.”
I follow her to the door and she gives me a hug before passing through. When she’s gone, I go to the table and drop into a chair. I pull the stack of money toward me and start counting. Including Bran’s twenty, there’s a hundred sixty nine dollars and thirteen cents. Not bad for five hours of solo work.
Who would have thought Podunk would be so profitable?
Destiny’s best friend from high school went to Sierra State and moved in with her boyfriend not too far from here after she graduated in May. She told Destiny it was cheap and she should come. So here we are.