Wes’s car still had that fancy new-car smell, like it smelled of money. Come to think of it, everything about Wes had a distinct scent: his cologne/soap mix conjured scenes of snow-drenched pines, a roaring fire, and a cocky man wearing an extravagant smoking jacket. His stark loft apartment was almost odorless, save for hints of lemon and lavender and subtle whiffs of ostentation.
Annie clicked on her seat belt and melted into his new Audi’s expensive-smelling leather. They probably stuffed hundreds into the cushioning for extra-special comfort.
“So,” Wes said, his hands on the wheel, eyes dead ahead, the car still in park. “Why are you late on rent?”
She rolled her head over the headrest and faced his stern profile. “That aromatherapy course set me back.”
“You told me you had money to pay for that course.”
“Yeah, but there’s a new craft store on 6th and it’s like being in a scrapbooking wonderland. I mean, only a cyborg would leave there without five bags of glitter and glue, and you should have seen their bowls of buttons.” Buttons so cute they’d be the envy of her online scrapbooking group. Craft supplies outweighed adulting times a million. You couldn’t put a dollar value on that level of awesome.
Wes shook his head. “Are you even planning to use the aromatherapy training? Or was that as big of a waste of money as your glass blowing class?”
“Neither of those felt right in the end. Not everyone needs to have their lives planned out by age five.”
He gestured wildly at the busy street. “You’re stranded without a purse because you can’t pay your landlord. Don’t you think it’s time you started acting your age? Take some responsibility for your life.”
Weston’s holier-than-thou attitude was long past tiresome. From his first appearance at the shelter Leo and Annie had called home, he’d walked around like he’d been better than everyone. Not a stretch back then. Wes was rich. Smart. Swoon-worthy to most girls, or certain guys—really anyone who had a faint pulse. Including a twelve-year-old Annie.
Until she’d learned his volunteer hours had been an ultimatum laid down by his mother. Until he’d hung around Leo more often, the two boys leaving her out. Until Leo had died while partying with Wes, and Wes had made it his mission to be Annie’s stand-in brother.
She appreciated how hard he tried to look out for her. She really did. It was sweet when he wasn’t driving her up the freaking wall. She knew he still harbored guilt for being there the night Leo died. She understood the responsibility he felt toward her. But why did he have to make her feel so inept? So young? Like a charity case he’d been saddled with.
At twenty-seven, she didn’t need to be anyone’s pity sister. “How about I start adulting when you quit acting like a constipated eighty-year-old.”
The corner of his lips twitched. “I was going for ninety, so I must be off my game. And do you want to tell me again why you’re wearing…that?”
She bristled at the disdain in his voice. “I don’t recall telling you a first time.”
“Why are you always so difficult?”
“Why are you always so tyrannical?”
“Honestly, Anthea.”
“Honestly, Weston.” She deepened her voice to mimic his.
He looked ready to smack his forehead on his steering wheel, and she laughed. Okay, sometimes it was fun sparring with his overbearing self. “I’m sorry. You’re just too easy to rile up. I have a new bartending gig at a hot spot in the Meatpacking District. Tight clothing means more tips.”
The car remained parked. He opened his mouth and closed it, hopefully thinking before spewing more judgmental nonsense. “What happened to the waitressing job at that”—he squinted through the windshield—“sports bar?”
“I got tired of smelling like chicken wings. And I may have dumped a beer on a regular who thought my butt was a hand rest.”
Weston’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “You have to tell me when you need help. They can’t fire you over that.”
“They didn’t fire me. I quit. And I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it since I was fourteen.”
He sighed and slumped slightly, the defeated pose so unlike Weston Aldrich, and guilt pressed on her lungs. She really had been more defensive lately, mainly with Wes. He was just so meddlesome. And infuriating. Unbelievably controlling. The way he’d sneered at her clothes hadn’t helped. She didn’t like her outfit much more than him. Not because it was revealing. The skimpy halter-skirt combo was typical clubbing attire, which made her think of carefree kids dancing to a DJ’s beats, which made her think of Leo, which made her think about the approaching anniversary of his death, which made her sad and crabby.
“Can we start driving so I’m not late for my new job?” she asked as she tugged down her skirt.
His eyes flicked to her thighs, then quickly away. Without replying, he turned the ignition and waited for a break in traffic.
Wes didn’t tease her about starting yet another job as he drove. She didn’t taunt him about his one-dimensional life, which revolved around work, work, and more work. He seemed stuck in his head, the tight clench of his jaw hinting at an internal yelling match. About her? His job? There was no reading Weston’s mind. Especially when she was eyeball deep in her own frustrations.
This new job wasn’t going to be much better than her last one. She would reek of booze and sweat instead of chicken wings and beer. Men would make sloppy advances. Her feet would hurt from hustling all night. She knew these jobs didn’t utilize her creative energy, as Wes never failed to mention. What he didn’t know was she had a plan.
And a piano.
The eight hundred dollar used Yamaha upright would be all hers tomorrow. She was excited and nervous, but mostly nervous. Piano had been Leo’s thing: learning to play, then learning bass, then drums, then tinkering with DJ mixers and controllers, anything that made sound, spending hours in his high school’s music room and music stores, earphones on, boasting that he’d be a huge DJ someday. He’d even found a rec center with a piano. They’d never complained when Leo used it to teach Annie.
She hadn’t touched a keyboard since the night Leo died.
Last month, everything had changed.
A couple of glasses of wine in her system, she’d sauntered into the subway station and could have sworn she’d heard Leo playing. It hadn’t been him, obviously. But the sound had drawn her, along with the strangest urge to play. Ten dollars placed in the busker’s hat, she’d asked if she could tickle his ivories.
“You can tickle anything of mine you like,” he’d said with a friendly wink. He’d stepped back while fanning his hand toward his electric keyboard, and she’d taken what had felt like her first breath in thirteen years.
She had played. Couldn’t believe she remembered how. Leo had told her she’d been a natural. She had felt something special as a twelve-year-old, closing her eyes, the cold-firm press of the keys beneath her fingers, the vibration traveling up her wrists as the notes spilled from her hands. All to impress her big brother. For two years they’d played as often as possible, her skills surprising even Leo. That same rush had blindsided her last month, the addictive pull to play, be closer to her brother.
Now she owned a piano that would be delivered tomorrow. She planned to practice until she could teach beginners the way Leo had taught her. What she wouldn’t do was tell Wes craft supplies hadn’t been the only purchase she’d made in lieu of paying rent. If he told her teaching piano was yet another dead-end job, it would cut deep. She didn’t want to defend her choice or put into words how she thought Leo would hear her if she played. She wasn’t sure why it had taken her thirteen years to touch a piano again.
“I thought you said you were worried about being late,” Wes said.
Annie looked out the window. She hadn’t noticed Wes pull over, but they were at her newest gig. A job that would pay the bills (and cover emergency craft-shop purchases) while her new plans marinated.
She unclicked her seat belt. Wes did the same. Which was odd. When he opened his door and his intentions sank in, she reached over him and yanked his door shut. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He cast a derisive glance at the bar. “I’m not letting you walk in there on your own.”
Imogen’s did look seedy in the light of day. Cigarettes and garbage littered the sidewalk. Buildings were in various states of decay, this section of the Meatpacking District less gentrified. Still nicer than the streets she’d once called home. She could handle herself anywhere, anytime. What she couldn’t handle was explaining to her coworkers that she’d needed a chaperone her first day. “You’re not letting me do anything. I’m doing this on my own because I’m a functioning adult who doesn’t need an escort.”
“A functioning adult wouldn’t be locked out of her apartment.”
Oh, man, he was cruising for a bruising.
His phone rang from the center console, and Duncan’s name flashed on the screen. She’d met the dashing blond at last year’s company Christmas party. Wes invited her to the event every year. After a handful, she’d begun declining.
The Aldrich Pharma staff knew Wes had met her while volunteering at a shelter, doing his Good Samaritan work. They’d seen Leo’s picture on his desk. Their pitying looks made her feel like she was Wes’s philanthropic project. Last year, free booze and food had outweighed her pride, and Duncan had introduced himself with a kiss to her hand, flirtation oozing through his bedroom voice. Wes had warned her to stay away from him after dragging Duncan away by the elbow. If Wes wanted to unleash his inner control freak, she’d have to fight dirty.
She grabbed Wes’s ringing phone and hit Talk. “Hey, Duncan! It’s me, Annie. We met at the Aldrich Pharma Christmas bash.”
“Must be my lucky day,” Duncan said, his cheerful voice a contrast to Wes’s scathing look. “To what do I owe the honor?” Duncan asked.
“I’m with Wes and your name popped up on his phone. I remembered how nice it was chatting with you, and I simply couldn’t resist answering.”
Scowling, Wes grabbed for the phone. She dodged the control freak, but his hand swiped her boob, and he pulled back, as though horrified. He didn’t try again, and a strange tingling spread up her neck. And down her thighs.
The tight space suddenly felt tighter.
“Anyway,” she said, slightly off balance, “I need to head into work, but it was nice hearing your voice again.”
“The pleasure was all mine. You sound as pretty as I remember.”
She laughed effusively, loudly, giving her best flirty girl impression, then she shoved the phone at Wes. “Thanks for the lift, Weston. I can take it from here.”
He looked about to lace into her, but he pulled out his keys and wallet and tried to hand her a wad of cash. “Use this for a cab home. Please don’t take the subway at night. And if you need my help with rent, call.”
He must really think she was still fourteen. She took his copy of her key and grabbed the cash. “I’ll make enough tips to get home on my own, but there’s someone who could use this. Say goodbye to Duncan for me,” she called loudly, hoping Duncan would hear. Wes’s cheeks turned her favorite shade of furious.
She shimmied out of the car, twisting awkwardly to avoid flashing Wes or the homeless man on the street corner. She closed the door as Wes barked, “Annie is off-limits,” into the phone.
Pleased with her ability to ruffle the unrufflable Weston Aldrich, Annie walked over to the homeless man, crouched in front of him, and gave him Weston’s cash. “I hope you have a good night.”
She made eye contact with him until he gave her a lopsided grin. His expression was loose and sloppy, but it was a smile nonetheless. When living on the street, Annie hadn’t understood why people wouldn’t look at her. Fear. Guilt. Disgust. The only thing worse than disdain had been invisibility.
“Annie,” Wes called from the car, using his be careful tone. He often warned her away from homeless people. Told her not everyone was safe. Then he’d drop a fifty into someone’s outstretched hand, covering her meager one or five.
She stood and blew Wes a kiss, then pushed into Imogen’s. The dank bar felt cavernous and smelled slightly sour, the floor so scuffed it looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. The high-top tables had seen better days, and the two pool tables and small stage at the back were a little worse for wear. Imogen’s rep as a “new” hot spot seemed suspect.
A beautiful Korean woman with a pixie-cut, who looked too young to work at a bar, was scanning bottles of alcohol and writing on a clipboard. When she noticed Annie, she waved. “I’m Vivian. You must be the new girl.”
“That would be me—Annie. Just tell me what needs doing, and it’s done.”
Eight hours later Annie’s predictions had come true. She was sweaty, she smelled of booze, her feet ached, and one slurring man had told her she had nice eyes, while staring at her boobs. Surprisingly, the “hot spot” label had also proved accurate. Dim lighting, electro jazz tunes, and a boisterous mid-twenties crowd had transformed Imogen’s from shabby to chic. Aside from her sore feet and less-than appealing smell, she felt energized.
Annie slid a whiskey sour to a tattooed woman along the bar.
Vivian caught Annie’s eye. “Selma said we can punch out at midnight.” She raised her voice over the music, dancing as she spoke. “The later shift will close.”
“You won’t hear me complaining.” Annie collected cash from her customer, grooving along with Vivian, and pocketed her tip. “Is it always this busy?” Thursdays at her last job had been hit or miss.
Vivian scanned the animated room. “Pretty much. Weekends are even better. And they’ll be more bearable with you here. The guy you replaced was slow as a slug.”
“Never hire a man to do a woman’s job.”
“Truth.” Vivian shook her hips as she gathered dirty shot glasses. “You should come out tonight. There’s a killer DJ playing a late-night set at a new Brooklyn joint.”
At the word DJ, queasiness curdled Annie’s stomach. “I don’t have ID. It’s locked in my apartment.”
“Not an issue. I know the bouncer.”
So much for an easy out.
Besides playing piano, Annie hadn’t visited a club or watched a DJ in thirteen years. Not difficult during her late teens, but it had been a concerted effort since turning twenty-one. She interacted online in music forums, but visiting a club reminded her too much of Leo’s death.
She should politely decline Vivian’s offer, head home, take a long bath, rest her sore feet. Get some sleep so she could be fresh and bright for tomorrow’s piano delivery, after paying her landlord this month’s rent. But she was wired from her shift, and buying that piano had been about feeling more connected to her brother. Walking into a club would be hard. Listening to the music live could trigger memories she tried to forget.
It could also be like that moment her fingers had touched the busker’s piano, filling her up in unexpected ways.
“Count me in,” she told Vivian quickly.
“Oh, fun!” Vivian clapped. “I’m meeting a date. It’ll be nice not to go alone.”
“As long as you’re sure I won’t be a third wheel.”
“It’s a first date, so you’ll be doing me a favor. We’ll come up with a save-me-before-I-die signal.”
“You’re going to a club at one a.m. for a first date?” Annie’s dates had generally been mundane affairs at restaurants and quiet pubs. Except that one time she’d been dragged to an underground poker game and the cops had raided the place. Calling Wes to bail her out of jail had almost been amusing. The color of his cheeks had been more livid than furious that night.
Vivian ran her hands along her black bustier, her suctioned leather pants and stilettos making Annie’s skirt and high boots look matronly. “Clubs mean I can dress to impress, and if she can’t hack the scene, she’s not for me.”
Annie hadn’t expected the “she” but loved that Vivian owned who she was, down to her partier status and the type of woman she wanted to date. Annie had no clue who she wanted to date, or if she had a type. Of her two boyfriends, one had been nice and quiet, most of their evenings spent watching movies on the couch, often falling asleep there. The other had been loud and fun, snapping social media photos every chance he’d gotten, dragging her to parties and double dates, rarely spending time alone with her.
Both had gotten on her nerves around month three.
“Meet me out front in fifteen,” Vivian said.
Annie nodded and worked to clean her area, moving, wiping, trying not to think too hard about how it would feel walking into a club. Already, though, images of Leo were sneaking up on her. She may not have been there the night he’d been shot, but that didn’t keep her imagination from conjuring horrifying images: blood splatter, strangled screams, lifeless eyes.
She blinked hard.
Hopefully this outing wasn’t a horrible idea. Hopefully it wouldn’t end with a wallow session on her floral couch as she drowned her sadness in salt and vinegar chips while scrapbooking until her fingers hurt.