The Rider List: An Erotic Romance (24 page)

After the calls, I feel like getting out again. Maybe catch some music at The Windjammer. Plus, I’m out of beer.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Audrey

Stacy picks me up around 7 p.m. and I’m not in the car for two seconds when she shocks me with some news. “I’m going to law school.”

I pull the door closed and reach for my seatbelt. “What? When did this happen?”

“Today. These lawyers make the big money, meanwhile all the lowly paralegals like me are doing most of the hard work.”

“Lowly? You’re the top one there.”

She laughs. “Yeah, which is exactly why I’m taking my talents to the big leagues.” She tells me she’s going to look into the Charleston School of Law tomorrow and she’s not going to waste any time.

She’d be a great lawyer, no doubt. And I’m happy for her. But it brings on some bitter thoughts of my own inability to get my advertising career jumpstarted.

It’s only been a couple of months since I graduated from college, but the job search started last fall. It’s hard to admit to this, but I haven’t exactly been pushing it as hard this summer, and a big part of it is because I’ve been so preoccupied with Evan.

He’s the first thing I think about when I wake up. He consumes nearly every waking minute of my day. He’s the last thing I think about before I go to sleep.

I know I’m falling in love with him, but this whole situation is incredibly precarious on many levels, I’ve been refusing to let myself fall all the way. The potential for pain is too high.

Stacy talks more about her decision, and I wipe my mind clear of my own troubles and listen to her. Maybe this is the kind of inspiration—more like a swift kick in the ass—I need to push as hard as I can.

Twenty minutes later we’re in a Mexican restaurant.

“Best thing about these places? Free chips and salsa.”

I nod in agreement, my mouth full with the stuff.

“I wonder,” she says, then pauses and looks around. “I wonder how long they’d let us sit here and eat these things for free.”

I laugh. “Not very long, especially if it’s busy.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “The way the waiter was smiling and staring at our boobs, we might get away with it for a few hours.”

Sipping my margarita, I put it back down on the table. “Go ahead. I’m having real food.”

As we eat dinner, and consume margaritas (two for me, one for Stacy because she’s driving) I catch her up on the latest with Evan.

She seems almost singularly focused on one aspect of it, because twice during the conversation she says something along the lines of: “I can’t believe you’re fucking a rock star.”

Eventually, though, she contributes more to the discussion. “So, what’s he going to do now?”

“I guess the indie route. He said it was ‘Option Number One’ but I don’t know anything beyond that.”

She puts her fork down and wipes her mouth with a napkin. “What’s option two?”

“No clue.”

“You have no clue or he has no clue?”

I tilt my head to the side and look off into the distance, then back at her. “I don’t have a clue about whether he has a clue. How’s that?”

“Confusing, but I get it. So when do I get to meet him?”

I shake my head. “No clue about that, either.”

She sits back in her seat, jaw dropping open for dramatic effect. “This is like a reality TV show without the payoff, you know that?”

“Don’t watch them,” I say quickly, as I put a forkful of rice into my mouth and smile.

“The ultimate reality show, because it’s real, and I could almost….
almost
be part of it, but no, my best friend is locking me out.”

I just smile. I’m teasing her, and she knows it. She’ll meet Evan soon enough. I just honestly haven’t thought about any of that kind of stuff. Everything is moving and changing so quickly.

She finishes off her margarita and puts the glass down. “Oh, I love me some drama,” she says, forcing a heavy southern accent.

. . . . .

What neither of us knew when Stacy joked about the drama was just how much of it would play out over the next couple of hours.

We leave the Mexican restaurant and decide our night isn’t over. As she drives, we consider going to a movie. I use my phone to look up what’s playing, but neither of us is interested in anything that’s currently out. We briefly discuss a new movie that’ll be released in August.

“But that doesn’t do us any good tonight,” she says.

“How about someplace downtown?” I suggest a few bars and clubs, but Stacy dismisses them all. She has to be up early tomorrow, so she’s rather stay on this side of town.

We head back over to the island, which narrows our entertainment possibilities for the evening, and we end up going to The Windjammer.

It’s packed when we drive by, people waiting on the steps that go up to the raised building, the line even snaking down the sidewalk a bit.

“Half-price drinks until nine,” she says. “I forgot they were doing that tonight.”

“Oh right. Still want to go?”

She hesitates, then sees an open parking spot, and hits the gas. “Might as well.”

The line moves faster when we get there. It’s not long before we’re climbing the steps up to The Windjammer’s entrance, music and loud conversations filling the air when we walk inside.

It’s crowded, more so than any other weeknights, but we make it to the bar and grab a couple of drinks. Stacy takes my hand and leads as we weave through the crowd and finally make it to the other side of the place, the outdoor area. It’s a huge covered deck, with speakers hanging from the rafters, and fans that blow cool mist on the crowd.

The sun has set, and the place is illuminated by strings of multi-colored lights that loop through the beams and wrap around the potted palms.

We manage to secure a corner of the deck. It’s perfect—no one behind us, and we have the railing to put our drinks on.

People-watching is one of our favorite things to do, so there’s not much conversation for a while. Our communication is limited to eye contact and nudging each other with our elbows and subtly pointing in one direction or another.

The live band is playing 80s cover songs. They’re good, even though I recognize only about half of what they’re playing.

We can barely see them through the wide open doors that lead inside, but we get a good view when they bring a girl from the audience onstage and she does what basically amounts to a karaoke version of Madonna’s “Like A Virgin.”

“Yeah, right!” Stacy says loudly to me.

I keep thinking about Evan, wondering what he’s doing tonight. As it gets later, closer to ten o’clock, I’ve pretty much made up my mind that I’m going to see him after this. Stacy knows everything now, so there will be no need to make up a story about what I’m doing.

My mind conjures up images of him in his bungalow, right now, just a few blocks down the street, playing his guitar.

I’d much rather be there with him, in a quiet place that’s not crowded, a private place where he plays music just for me, and then the night takes its usual turn to mind-blowing sex with this wildly sexy, perfectly imperfect man who came into my life less than two months ago and very well might be leaving it in a few weeks.

Or maybe not. Who knows?

I wish he were here.

“Oh, shit.” Stacy’s voice breaks my daydreaming.

I look at her, see that she’s looking straight ahead, and I follow the direction of her gaze.

Wyatt is making his way toward us.

“This can’t be happening,” Stacy says.

But it is. It’s really him. And he’s just a few feet away now, looking directly at me. When he reaches us, he looks over to Stacy, nods once, then says, “Hey,” as his eyes move back to me. Stacy says nothing. She sips from her drink.

“Please leave,” I say.

He throws his head back, then looks at me again. “Come on. I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“I don’t…” My voice is quiet, too quiet for the noise of this place, and too quiet for what I really want to say to him. “I don’t need to hear anything you have to say, especially not here while I’m out enjoying a night with my friend.”

Wyatt laughs. “We’re not friends?”

I shake my head. “Look, we had this talk—”

“What would you have done without me?”

My brow furrows. “What?”

“When your sister disappeared. And you.” Wyatt stops his sentence there for some reason. It takes me a second to realize it’s because he’s drunk. “And you freaked out. I found her.”

Yep. He’s drunk. I can smell it now that his face is closer to mine. That railing behind us seemed perfect when we grabbed this spot. Now it’s trapping me.

“Let’s go,” Stacy says, putting her drink down and reaching for my hand. She grabs my wrist.

Wyatt puts his hand on top of hers, squeezing.

Stacy straightens her back. Her eyes get huge. “Get your fucking, slimy drunk-ass hands off me.”

Wyatt laughs and squeezes harder. Stacy jerks and pulls, freeing us from his grip.

Without looking back, we edge our way through the dense crowd. It’s loud. People are moving around. Some are dancing. Others are walking in all different directions. I bump into a guy and almost make him spill his beer. “Sorry!” I call out and he just looks away. I can’t wait to get out of here.

We’re almost to the front entrance when we have to stop. People are coming in, going out, and everything slows at this point.

Finally out on the front deck, we’re just a few feet away from the steps that will take us down to the sidewalk and away from this place.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. It grips me hard and turns me around. My hand slips from Stacy’s.

Wyatt is inches from my face, his breath heavy with alcohol, his face sweaty to the point that it’s made the edge of his hair wet.

“I moved back here for you.” He looks at me, a weird rage in his eyes. “For
you
.”

Stunned by what he’s just said, I can’t decide if he’s telling the truth or if he’s so drunk, he’s full of shit. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m back.” He spreads his arms wide, one hand hitting a girl in the back. She turns to look at him, makes a face like she’s disgusted, and moves away. “You wouldn’t move to Seattle for me…so I moved back here for you.”

Stacy shouts, “Big mistake!”

“Shut up, bitch,” he says, quickly glancing over at her, then back to me.

“What the fuck?” Stacy says, and I shake my head, letting her know I’m going to handle this, and please be quiet.

“It’s over, Wyatt. It’s been over for a long time.”

His eyelids are droopy, his mouth is half-open, and he starts to shake his head. “No.”

“Yes. We’re over. I didn’t ask you to move back here and I wouldn’t have even if you had brought it up.”

He laughs. “You’re not over me.”

“I am. I really am.” I turn to face Stacy. “Let’s go.”

We start to move toward the steps, but I’m stopped by Wyatt’s hand again. He grabs my upper arm and squeezes as tightly as he can. It hurts. I start to turn, and as he comes into view, I see a pair of hands land on his shoulders.

Wyatt lets me go as he shifts on his feet to see who has grabbed him from behind. A bouncer, I figure. But it’s no bouncer. It’s Evan.

Wyatt is facing him now.

I hear Evan’s voice. “She told you to leave her alone.”

How much of this did he hear? How long has he been here?

“Who the fuck are you?” Wyatt yells.

I see something in Evan I’ve never seen before. His eyes are glaring, like an animal that has its sights on its prey. His jaw is clenched, the muscles on either side flexing and releasing quickly, almost pulsing. “Doesn’t matter. Leave her alone.”

He takes his eyes off Wyatt just long enough to look at me and move his head toward the street, like he’s telling me to go. He looks back at Wyatt. I stay in place, stunned by what’s happening.

And before I can register what happens next, Wyatt closes the distance between himself and Evan. It’s just a couple of steps, but it’s like he’s trying to tackle Evan or something. I see Wyatt’s elbow at one point and then it disappears quickly.

Next thing I know, Wyatt’s feet are leaving the ground. Evan has him by his shirt. He takes a couple of steps forward, toward the deck railing, lifting Wyatt more. Wyatt’s arms are flailing. He’s trying to grab Evan’s head, but he can’t.

People are starting to look. They’re starting to make noises of surprise and shock at what they’re seeing.

Evan has Wyatt hanging over the railing. It’s a drop of probably fifteen feet down to the sidewalk. The only thing keeping Wyatt from making that drop are Evan’s clenched fists on his shirt, and Wyatt’s legs, from the knees down, desperately locking on to the railing.

I fear what might happen next and without thinking, I shout: “Evan!”

People are gathering in a half-circle around the scene. I notice most people holding up their phones, taking pictures, flashes going off, one light staying on because the person is taking a video.