Crazy Love (7 page)

“Alcoholism is a disease, Sam. Lack of drive is not. You got into Harvard Law. If I ditched out after accomplishing that, I’d be embarrassed as hell…not cracking jokes about it. All that wasted time and money…” Speculating about the tuition costs of an Ivy League school made me cringe.

“The time was mine to waste. The money, too.” I glanced at him and saw that his clenched jaw didn’t match the carefree delivery of his words. He was so polished, like a born politician. I could sense something stewing under his cool exterior – something hostile. I wondered if he was just cynical about life in general. His negativity was a major buzzkill, and I would have dropped the subject, but I really didn’t want to discuss Trip and had no idea what else to make conversation about. I hated the tension between us, but neither of us spoke for the next couple of blocks.

Finally, I cleared the gigantic frog blocking my throat. “What are you gonna do now? Since you aren’t planning to finish, I mean.”

“I have no idea.” He sighed, sounding like a lost little boy, and it overwhelmed me with sadness to hear such defeat in his voice. I couldn’t comprehend why I felt so empathetic toward him when he was clearly his only obstacle. I refused to look in his direction.

We rode in silence after that, but the air in the car was still heavy. Frustration radiated from him, yet when I finally peeked at him, his face was as placid as a lake at sunrise. I barely knew this man, so I figured it was best not to push him more. He exhaled loudly, and it was plain to me that he wanted to say something.

“What?” I blurted after his third dramatic sigh.

“You shouldn’t pose for him. It’s a trap. That’s how he’ll lure you in.”

“Maybe I want to be
lured in
.” My voice sounded playful as I imitated his drawl. We stopped at another stoplight and I turned to him. I saw frustration and my own exasperation reflected in his features.

Those lavender-blue eyes were on mine again. “You’ll regret it.”

“Sam, pipe down. It’s not Playboy.” I snorted.

His joking mood had vanished. He didn’t laugh or even crack a smile. “You have no idea how bad he can get. I do. “

“I know a thing or two about addicts.” I mumbled, looking away and busying myself with the radio. He reached out and covered my hand with his. I shot him an apprehensive glance and tried to ignore the spark that shot from his touch and circulated throughout my entire body.

“Calling Trip’s drinking an addiction issue is like calling the Grand Canyon a hole in the ground. He’s an exceptional drunk.” His eyes, which were locked on mine, narrowed thoughtfully. “I swear it’s all the Savannah inbreeding.”

“But you’re his brother, and you’re
normal
.” I countered, pulling my hand away from the radio and from his.

Sam paused and looked thoughtfully out of the windshield. “Maybe I only have one kidney, and I just don’t know it yet. I’m sure some congenital abnormality will haunt me later.”

“Maybe he
is
on the right path. With all due respect, Sam, you aren’t exactly up on current events around here.” The light turned green, and I hit the accelerator.

“And why do you think that is, Annabelle?” Every time he said my name, it was like an intimate caress. My heart raced as I felt him watching me. I wanted to face him head on, but in the confined space of the car, my responses to him were…troubling.

“So he screwed up. Don’t we all? I’m sure you aren’t perfect either. He seems like he’s doing really well. Cut him some slack. As for me…I can take care of myself.”

An awful cackle erupted from him, and it was possibly one of the most uninviting sounds I’d ever heard. “You must be really fucked up. You’re so ready to hop in the sack with a total fucking train wreck? Jesus. Your daddy issues must be epic.”

I sucked in a loud breath. My vision blurred, as if someone had pulled down a red shade in front of my eyes. Rage coursed through my veins, and I jammed my foot onto the brake with such force that it’s amazing we didn’t both have whiplash.

“Get out.” I heard my voice tremble as the words left my lips. There was a pregnant pause, and the rhythmic sound of the rain beat in time with my hammering heart.

“Annie…,” he whispered, both gentle and contrite. I whipped my head in his direction. His eyes widened at whatever he saw emanating from me.

“I said get the hell out of my car, Sam. Now!”

Without further delay, Sam clambered out of my car and was drenched before he shut the door. As I peeled away, I heard him exclaim when my tires threw more water up on him, but I was way too pissed to laugh about it.

My blood boiled the rest of the way home. Goddamn right I had “daddy issues!” My biological father ditched us when I was only three years old. Knowing my mom, he had plenty of reasons. I didn’t really blame him, but I often wondered why he didn’t take me with him. I liked to think I got my levelheadedness from him, but since I didn’t remember him at all, I couldn’t be sure.

After he left, my mom may as well have had a revolving door on her bedroom. She got knocked up twice more after me – by different men, no less. I always took bizarre pride at being the only non-bastard of her litter. During her third pregnancy, she finally settled down with the “baby daddy” for nearly five long years, and he turned out to be a pervert.

Drenched and feeling like utter crap, I sloshed up the stairs to my apartment and burst through the door. Jayse, who lounged on the couch watching Bravo, uttered a melodramatic gasp and grabbed his chest.

“Helena Bonham Carter!” He theatrically exclaimed, as if the actress’s name were a swear word. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“Sorry.” I muttered, flinging open the fridge and scouring its contents for something bad for me.

“What are you doing home so early?”

“I live here.”

“No shit, Cuntzilla. Did they close The Marketplace early because of the weather?” Jayse could sense drama like some people could divine water using a forked stick. He snatched up his pita chips and hummus from the coffee table. His blonde curls bounced as he frolicked into the kitchen, offering me some of his snack.

“No. I closed down early. Trip took me to Vic’s.” I scooped a huge amount of hummus onto a chip and popped it into my mouth. Jayse’s brown eyes twinkled as he graced me with a scandalous, dimpled grin.

“You
filthy
little social climber! Blowing off your booth for a nooner with a Beaumont? Don’t let me down, Fancy. This is your one chance!”

“Calm down. I just gave him a ride to his place. His brother was with us the whole time.”

“Oooo…ménage de Beaumont. Très trampy! I’ve taught you well, Young Grasshopper.” He clapped his hands enthusiastically, and I gave him a dirty look as I snatched a bag of cheese puffs out of the cupboard. He must have seen something telling on my face: his smile vanished, and he immediately shifted into “Supportive Jayse” mode.

“So no three-way. Boo…hiss. But that’s hardly a reason to put on ten pounds, Annie.”

“I told Trip that I’d pose for him,” I said, crunching on a mouth full of saturated fat.

“About time. And all the more reason not to become a fatty.” Jayse snatched the cheese puffs from me and tossed the bag on top of the fridge. “Okay, focus. Trip’s brother: is he hot?”

“He’s…ok.” My mind flashed to Sam’s scorching violet-blue eyes and the lanky way he towered over me by the windows at Trip’s place. I flung open the freezer, moving things around until I found my stash of thin mints.

“Mmmmhmmmm…” Jayse’s sardonic reply accompanied his outstretched hand. I took three cookies out of the package and grudgingly handed it to him. He closed the freezer bag and swiftly stuffed them back in the freezer. “Alright, spill it, Sistah. Why ya’ trippin’? No pun intended.”

“It turns out that Trip’s an alcoholic.” I bit into a cookie and peeked up at him from under my lashes.

“Keep your panties on,” Jayse deadpanned, the smile disappearing from his eyes. My weakness for bad boys and foolish choices was the stuff of legend. Though Jayse often commented that I needed to loosen up, he wasn’t about to let me move directly from training wheels to base jumping.

“He’s in A.A.…and his brother is a
total
asshole. If I
never
see him again it will be way too soon,” I huffed, and Jayse pulled a bottle of wine out of the fridge.

“Deep cleansing breaths, Annie. Let’s get buzzed, and you can tell me everything,” Jayse instructed, producing the wine bottle opener out of thin air. We moved to the couch with our glasses, and I explained the events of my day.

“Well,” he sighed thoughtfully, after a full minute of silent contemplation, “let’s be realistic. You won’t find many thirty- year-olds without baggage. And as for Sam, he sounds like a sexy good time. Are you sure he’s straight?”

“A good time?” I snapped, after nearly choking on my wine.

“He sounds like a decent guy.” He sat forward a bit, as if he were trying to explain a complicated issue to a confused halfwit. I squinted at him.

“You’re joking, right?” I felt angry all over again.

Jayse rolled his eyes. “He’s trying to keep you from getting mixed up with a brother who he believes will screw up your life and hurt you. As for his theories about your daddy issues…he just fucking met you, Annie. You can’t hate the man for being a good guesser.”

“Maybe not. But I can hate him for laughing at me and basically calling me a whore.” The image of Sam’s amazing arms and lavender eyes flickered in my mind, and I angrily shoved my hair away from my face. Jayse seemed to scrutinize me.

“Whatever blows your skirt up, Lovergirl.” He sat back and flipped the TV back on. “Just tell me who we’re mad at, and you know I’ll play along.”

Jayse and I didn’t get to talk much the rest of the week. We were both buried in a blur of studying, classes, and tests. I got 97% on the Pharmokinetics test I’d crammed for, so all was right with the world as far as I was concerned. The rain continued its relentless assault on Savannah, and I didn’t even bother to ride my bike to the cemetery, knowing it would have been an absolutely pointless endeavor.

The piano bar was completely dead on Wednesday, and I got sent home from work early. I was pretty damn happy I’d overcharged Trip for the rubbings because the missing tips would have squeezed my infinitesimal budget pretty hard. I had hoped Black Keys would be busier Thursday because I adored that place and didn’t want to have to quit and go to some shitty sports bar out by the mall. I loved the classy music and the location in the historic part of town. As lame as it sounds, working at such an upscale place somehow made me feel like I’d come a long way.

Fortunately, Black Keys was slammed on Thursday night, so I had nothing to fear. The pianist was wildly popular, a foul-mouthed bit of a local legend. He told bawdy stories between numbers, and the crowd gobbled it up like kids at a build-your-own-sundae bar. They drank bucket after bucket of beer and tipped as if it were their last night on earth.

While I was settling the tab of a snotty table of country club widows/divorcees, I caught sight of Trip seated in his regular corner booth. Sitting across from him was a pretty blonde, and they appeared to be having a very animated conversation. With her heart-shaped face, she rocked a pixie haircut and she had an hourglass figure that Jayse would have described as “va va va voom.” I tried not to feel like a gangly giraffe as I assessed her and wondered who the hell she was.

After clearing the table of aging “mean girls” and pocketing their lame excuse for a tip, I approached my boss, Martin. Hyper as always, he shuffled behind the bar, nearly salivating as he opened the cash register. Martin was an easy guy to work for. He never objectified me, and he’d been in the industry for longer than I’d been alive. Consequently, he knew almost everyone in town. Since he loved to name drop, I knew it was likely he’d have intel I needed.

“Hey,” I whispered to him, “who’s the blonde sitting with Trip Beaumont?”

Martin barely looked up from the tall pile of receipts as his savvy eyes peered at their corner. “Violet Duchamp. His ex. She’s a class act. Those two were really something back in the day.”

“What happened?” Unable to keep my eyes from searching the former couple for clues, I observed that Violet seemed unable to talk without using her hands. In the few months that I’d know Trip, I’d never seen so much emotion on his face. At that particular moment, he looked surprised and disturbed, like when Sam mentioned leaving law school, but ten times more so.

Martin paused and blinked at me uncomfortably. I may not have been able to read Trip, but I
could
read Martin like a book. He’d seen me talking to Trip on more than one occasion, and he wasn’t sure how much he should say. “Trip’s a wee bit too much like his father.”

I felt a shiver down my spine, though I had no idea what he meant by the statement. Martin, as a character witness, was
way
further removed from the source and therefore much more reliable than Sam in my book. Hearing him corroborate that Trip had problems not only raised a red flag, it illuminated my KYPO list with all the wattage of the Fremont Street Experience in Vegas.

“Truth is, they were doomed from the start. A classic tale of a couple that burned too hot not to fry out. Now, enough chit chat. Go and take them their drinks.”

I raised my eyebrows as he handed me a tray with a club soda and a frou frou umbrella drink perched on it. Dread poured over me like the nearby water wall as I approached them. Violet’s arms were folded across her voluptuous chest, and Trip seemed to be raving at her. Still, their chemistry was palpable from fifteen feet away.

This
is the opening act that I’m supposed to follow? Seriously?

As I approached, I heard Violet rail back at him. “Well of course you ‘only hurt the ones you love’, Reg. That’s because they’re the only ones who give a shit about you!”

I saw Trip’s lips moving, but I couldn’t make out a word he was saying. Violet noticed me approaching and held up a hand to shush him. Trip turned mid rant and snapped his mouth shut when he saw me.