Running in Place (Mending Hearts) (3 page)

Damn. I can’t get these lyrics out of my head. I need my goddamn journal. I should have just brought my Jeep instead of letting Ryder bring me up here today. I know better, but it just couldn’t be helped. Still in the throes of sexual bliss, I was apparently unable to form words when she asked to take one car.

Angrily grabbing the nearest cocktail napkin, I jot down the words that keep relentlessly pummeling my brain. I won’t be able to fucking function until they’re out of my head. This is the very reason why I always keep my journal in my Jeep. Otherwise my room would be littered from floor to ceiling with these things.

Folding up the napkin, I slide it in my back pocket and turn back toward the lovely cougar patron who has been trying to get my attention with her cleavage for the past thirty minutes.

I have to admit, they’re not half bad. Still perky, even though she’s pushing fifty.

Placing both palms on the bar, I lean in close and flash her one of my most irresistible grins.

“So, Mrs. Harris, where’s Mr. Harris this evening?” I ask, giving her a sly wink as she smiles flirtatiously in return.

“Mr. Harris? He’s at home. Such a bore, that man. When we married, he was so full of energy,” she draws out the last word, making sure I pick up the not so indiscreet hint she’s just throwing my way. I field it well and toss her one back. We play this game often.

“Really? That’s a shame. A beautiful woman, such as yourself? You deserve to have someone very…energetic.” I lean in a little closer to up my tip value.

“Oh, well…” Flustered, she turns about twenty different shades of red before taking a sip of her Cosmo. It’s my personal goal to make her blush at least once when she comes in. She loves it.

After giving her another wink and half-smile, I press myself away from her and turn toward the order printing at the end of the bar. Ripping off the piece of paper, I barely have time to read it before I’m greeted by a pair of cheerful brown eyes and huge dimples in the wait station on the other side of the printer.

“’Sup, Sadie?” I ask, returning her smile.

“Nothin’. I need a Texas Tea and Chardonnay for table forty-one. I think that’s my ticket that just printed.” She pauses and nervously shifts her weight, the tell-tale clue telling me she’s about to ask to get off early. Holding her stare, I stand with her drink order in hand, patiently awaiting her request.

“Soo… I switched shifts with Daniel. I’m gettin’ off in about an hour, ’kay?”

“I didn’t approve any shift changes, Sadie.” My left eyebrow raises and I internally cringe because it reminds me of my father. Relaxing my face, I decide to give her a tilt of my head instead.

“I know, Noah. But, please. I need to get off for Tatum. She planned this
huge
date for her and Cash and the asshole bailed on her,
again
. Please?” She gives me huge puppy dog eyes and damn it if it doesn’t work. Well, it was either that or the mention of Tatum and Dickhead the Douchebag. A whole new round of lyrics starts buzzing around in my head. Mainly about beating the shit out of a guy named Dickhead the Douchebag.

It’s not my best song, but it sure makes me smile on the inside.

Looking around the bar, I take notice that the happy hour clientele
has
thinned quite a bit.

“Fine, but don’t let it happen again.” An ecstatic grin breaks across her face while she claps and jumps up and down on the balls of her feet. Shaking my head, I remind her, “I’m serious, Sadie. Not. Again. And you’re pulling expo Friday night. Laura can’t and I need someone to fill in. Okay?” Scooping up some ice, I toss it into the glass I just set down on the bar.

Her smile grows exponentially and she shakes her head. “Okay, Noah. Thank you!”

“No problem. So…” I drawl, “what happened with Tatum?” Grabbing four liquor bottles, two in each hand, I turn them upside down, dispensing the liquid into the glass. After a quick three count, I set them back in their allotted spaces and quickly snatch the sweet and sour, throwing Mrs. Harris another wink in the process. Five more shades of red pass quickly over her cheeks and that chest she’s so proud of before I turn back to face Sadie.

“Well, like I said, she was ditched
again
. So, she’s on her way up here to have a few drinks until I get off. Then, who knows. We’ll probably go dancing and announce to the world our immense hatred for all men who walk the Earth. You know, the usual.” She laughs, and I watch Ryder saunter up right behind her, swaying her hips seductively. Setting her tray down in front of Sadie, she glares in her direction, obviously trying to mark her territory. Sadie takes one look at her with widened eyes and then laughs right in her face before Ryder redirects her glare at me.

I choke my own laughter back. It really
is
ridiculous.

Finishing off the Texas Tea with a splash of coke, I set the glass on top of the tray in front of Sadie.

“Hey! That’s
my
tray, Noah,” Ryder whines.

“Not anymore.” Finishing off the bottle of Chardonnay directly into the wine glass I’d pulled down from the rack earlier, I set it beside the Texas Tea. The sides of my mouth quirk into a slight smile as Sadie picks the tray up and places it on her shoulder, eyes on Ryder the entire time. After a five second show down, Sadie turns and walks away without so much as one word to Ryder — who’s now seething and shooting daggers at me with her green eyes.

I chuckle to myself because, to be quite honest, I don’t give a shit.

This is exactly why I shouldn’t screw chicks at work. They get all territorial and bitchy. It’s annoying. And extremely unattractive.

Exhaling deeply, I fight the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can I help you, Ryder? Is there something you actually need? Or did you just come over here to cause problems for the other wait-staff?”

“What?” she asks, clearly appalled that I would make such an accusation. “I came over here to tell you that Sadie’s changing shifts without even asking you, Noah. I was trying to do you a favor.”

“Well, I don’t really need you to do me any favors, do I?” Tossing the empty wine bottle into the trashcan, I watch Ryder exaggeratedly flinch as it lands right on top, breaking the beer bottles underneath it with a loud crash. “Not that it’s any of your business, but she
did
, in fact, clear her schedule change with me. So, instead of worrying so much about what
Sadie’s
doing, why don’t you start worrying about all the empty glasses sitting on the tables in your section?”

Lips forming a tight line, she lets out a frustrated growl and then, without a word, she turns and storms off towards her tables.

Pivoting back towards Mrs. Harris, I laugh at her flabbergasted expression. “Sorry ‘bout that.
Women.
You can’t live with ’em. You can’t live without ’em.”

She smiles as I assume my earlier inappropriate position and lean into her personal space.

“That’s not a woman, Noah. That’s a brat!” She dips her head, peering at me over the rim of her glasses as she whispers, “Please tell me you are not involved with that girl. You know what they say about dippin’ your pen in company ink. It’s never a good situation.”

I chuckle under my breath. “So true, Mrs. Harris. So true. Unfortunately for me though, that ink’s my ride home tonight.”

“Noah!” she admonishes. “You’re so bad!” She playfully slaps my hand. I grab a handful of peanuts and throw them into my mouth.

“You have no idea, Mrs. Harris.” One wink and another blush pattern later, I leave her with a freshly made Cosmopolitan to go make nice with Ryder. I really
do
need a ride home tonight. And I’m not getting it from Mrs. Harris. No matter how many times she offers.

Even
I
know that’s not a good idea.

On my way to the wait-station to work my magic, Trace pokes his head out of the kitchen from across the bar, gesturing for me to meet him there. Nodding back, I head toward him as he disappears from the doorway.

My mind stirs with the memory of the last real conversation Trace and I had in his office.

Tatum.

I understand Tatum and Trace having issues. He basically forced her into employment here so he can keep somewhat of an eye on her, but the closer he attempts to get to her, the more belligerent of a response she has regarding any interaction with him. So, it’s obvious to me why he asked
me
to watch over her. I can bend my mind around all of that.

What I don’t get is why I said
yes
.

It would be easy, I guess, to say I felt obligated to do it since he’s my boss. But, deep down I know that’s not the reason.

Honestly, I think it’s because I’m intrigued.
She
intrigues me. Absolutely nothing about her makes sense.

For example, she’s beautiful, stunning even — crystal clear blue eyes, long black hair, perfect pouty mouth, full lips. Gorgeous. She could have any man she wants. But she’s living with
Cash
? This makes absolutely no sense to me. Cash is the epitome of loser. If you were to look up the word “loser” in the dictionary, his fucking picture would be next to it. Dumb as a brick. Redneck country boy — gapped teeth and all. Why the hell is she with him? This, I would like to know.

Also, another thing that definitely does
not
make sense was her decision to quit school right before she was set to graduate. Why do that? Is it because she’s afraid? And if so, what’s she so scared of? Success? Failure? Growing up? What drives that kind of fear?

But most of all, I want to make sense of her unhappiness. She hides it well from others, I’ll give her that. But
I
see it every time she looks at me. Her eyes betray the sorrow that consumes her. What caused this pain? Why does she hold on to it?

I want to why. I
have
to know why.

So far, though, she’s given me nothing to go on. Pretty much all she’s given me is a helluva lot of attitude mixed with some cold shoulder. In all honesty, we really shouldn’t even be scheduled together because every single time we work the same shift we end up arguing about some stupid shit. I can’t say
one
thing to her without her losing her temper.

Typically, this would irk me. I am, however, grateful for this because I seem to need a constant reminder to try to maintain my distance from her. I have to. I can’t afford to let myself get close to her, and the constant bickering between us is a healthy reminder of why. I don’t have time for bullshit.

That being said though, it
is
my goal to figure her out before I leave. And I will. I just have to make more of an effort to stay far away from her while I do it. Far, far away. Far away is better for everyone involved.

After rapping my fist on the door frame of the office, I wait for Trace to gesture for me to enter. His blue eyes dart up from his desk, and I’m momentarily struck by how much he and his sister resemble each other. Same light blue eyes and same black hair, although his is short and shaggy. Twelve years her senior, they look identical, with the exception of age.

After shutting the door behind me, I take a sit in the leather seat in front of the desk.

“So, Trace, what’s up?” I ask, watching him shuffle some papers to the side.

He shoots me a narrowed stare before answering. “Harvard, huh? When were you planning on telling me?” Rising out of his seat, he crosses to the front of the desk and leans back against it, positioning himself right in front of me.

I’m so not ready to have this conversation.

“Who told you?” I stall.

“Ryder just mentioned it in passing. I can’t say that I’m surprised, but I thought I would hear it from you first.”

Fucking Ryder.
I used my acceptance into Harvard as a way to get her to understand that fuck buddies were all we’d
ever
be. Three months until I leave for Boston. The last thing I need is some clingy, heartbroken girl sobbing when I
do
leave. So, I just nipped it right then and basically told her where we stood from the beginning. If she’s okay with that, then who am I to judge? Not me.

As Trace peers back at me, I shift in my seat. The napkin in my back pocket suddenly feels as if it’s burning a hole through my pants in protest. I guess by not telling Trace, maybe I was hoping some miracle would present itself in which I would be able to live
my
life instead of my father’s.

A grin crosses his face as he leans forward and claps me on the shoulder with his hand. “I’m proud of you, Noah. That’s quite an accomplishment. I don’t know how you did it, working here while juggling your pre-med courses, but you did,
and
you graduated with honors.” He shakes his head. “If only Tatum could be half as disciplined as you,” he adds with a snicker.

Blood rushes to my face, and I break into a nervous sweat. I generally don’t do well with compliments. I’m just not used to them. I don’t get them often, and when I do they make me uncomfortable. I shift awkwardly again in my seat.

“Thanks, Trace. It’s really
not
a big deal. It was pretty much predestined for me to attend before I was even born. My father would have made it happen regardless. Alumni and all…”

Trace gives me a thoughtful look but backs off the subject. “Baylor let out and it’s the beginning of summer, so, I assume you started working again with Blake at the new duplexes. I know he had you scheduled to start working with his crew as soon as your classes let out.”

“Yes, sir, I am. Just painting for now. He offered to show me more later in the summer, but I think he’s breaking me in first. So, painting it is.” I let out a nervous laugh. I’m definitely not comfortable being a novice either. Typically, it’s a requirement for me to master everything I do with my first attempt, but I’m enjoying taking the time to learn something new and not being reprimanded if it does take time. Plus, it beats being a go-fer for Blake like I was last summer.

Trace dips his head in agreement. “You’ll need the days off then, am I correct?”