Crushed (20 page)

I know what I did.

My dad’s silent, waiting for more info, and I ask. “What’s this have to do with you and Mom getting divorced?”

“Just help me out here, Michael. What happened between you and Ethan?”

“It was over a girl, okay?” I snap. “Oldest story in the book. Two best friends fighting over a chick. Happy?”

“A girl? The only girl in Ethan’s life back then was Olivia.”

I swallow against the agony at hearing her name. Especially her name in the same sentence as Ethan’s.

I say nothing.

And my silence tells my dad everything he needs to know.

“Oh.”

“I don’t fucking want to talk about it, okay? It’s in the past.”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay. But there may be another reason why Ethan distanced himself from you.”

I don’t think Ethan needed another reason beyond walking into my bedroom and seeing his girlfriend in my arms, but I don’t tell my dad this. He’s clearly gearing up toward something. I just don’t have a clue what.

“Your mother found out that I’d been seeing Debra.”

For a long, blissful moment this doesn’t compute.

And then.

It does.

I lean forward, my head between my knees, half out of breath, half-nauseous.

“Debra. As in Mrs. Price? You’ve been fucking Ethan’s mother?”

“Michael.”

“What the fuck, Dad? She’s mom’s best friend.”

A pause. “I know.”

“She was like a second mother to me.”

“I know that, too.”

“Then why?
Jesus
.”

“I don’t have any good answers, Michael. I made a mistake.”

A mistake. He made a mistake.

He screwed my best friend’s mother.

Just like I’d tried to screw my best friend’s girlfriend.

Oh, fuck.

“Does Ethan know?”

A longer pause this time. “I believe so.”

I groan. No wonder my best friend can’t bear the sight of me. The St. Claires had seriously fucked with his life.

And then it hits me: the answer to the age-old nature-versus-nurture bullshit.

I’m just like my father. Both of them.

Both screw women that belong to other men.

Just like I’d made a move on Olivia.

Just like I’d allowed myself to be a plaything for all these bored housewives all summer.

My mouth twists in regret. I’m even more disgusting than I’d realized.

“I’ve gotta go.”

“Michael.”

I hang up.

It’s not until I hear the
crack
that I realize I’ve hurled my phone at the wall across from my bed. I lock my hands behind my head to keep from punching something, and breathing suddenly seems difficult.

For the past year, I’ve put nearly every waking minute toward trying to control the anger boiling inside me.

Today, it breaks.

Chapter 22

Chloe

It’s not a date.

It’s what I told myself when Devon called and asked if I wanted to grab a drink at Pig and Scout tonight.

It’s what I told myself when I got dressed.

And then re-dressed.

And then, when I changed my outfit one
more
time into tight cropped jeans, cork wedge heels, and a mocha-colored wrap shirt that shows just a wee bit of cleavage, I reminded myself once more: not a date.

I wasn’t thinking
date
when I straightened my hair (it’s worth noting that this is a ninety-minute time investment).

And I definitely didn’t think it was a date when I spent extra time with my makeup, going a little heavier with a smoky brown eye shadow and a little sultry with a light glossy lipstick.

“Where are you off to?” Mom asks, as I dump the contents of my purse onto the kitchen counter in search of my ever-elusive car keys.

“P&S,” I say.

Her reading glasses are perched on her nose as she flips through
Vogue,
but she slips them down just enough to peer at me over the tops of them, taking in my appearance.

“You meeting the girls?” she asks.

“Nah, Devon called. Asked if I wanted to meet up.”

“Hmm,” she says, removing the glasses and chewing one of the ends.

I find my keys, untangling them from a half dozen hair bands. “Yes, Mother?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly,” I say, giving her a patient look. “You always have something to say.”

She pulls the glasses from her mouth. “Have you talked to your sister recently?”

A little stab of guilt slithers down my spine, and I decide to face it head-on. “Is that your way of asking if she knows that I’m going out with her ex-boyfriend?”

“Going out?” Mom asks, her voice half disbelief, half disapproval.

“No! Not like that,” I backpedal quickly. “He just . . . I think he’s lonely, you know? And we’ve always been friends.”

“Chloe.” Mom sets her glasses aside and folds her hands in front of her.

Oh, boy.
“Mom, you’re not going to tell me not to make a move on Kristin’s ex, right? Because I’m not.”

I’m really not. I want to. But I won’t. But if Devon made a move . . .

“No, sweetie, I was just going to say—”

She breaks off and I make a
go on
gesture with my hand.

“I just don’t want you getting hurt, sweetie.”

I choke out a little laugh. “Well, I’ll be sure and wear a helmet in the bar if it makes you feel better.”

As usual, she ignores my sarcasm. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

She gives me a look, and I give her a stubborn one back.

Mom sighs. “Honey, you’ve always worn your heart on your sleeve. It’s one of your best qualities.”

I swallow and clench my keys tighter, soooo not liking where this is going.

Her hand reaches across the counter, not quite touching mine. “I know how you feel about Devon. I’ve always known.”

I look away.

“You think my heart didn’t hurt for you when he went overnight from being your reading buddy to being Kristin’s whipping boy?”

My gaze flies up to meet hers, and she gives a wry smile. “I love both my girls, but I also know their flaws. Your sister is . . .”

Spoiled? Selfish? Spiteful?

“She has some growing up to do,” Mom finishes.

I give a little golf clap at the understated observation.

“But, Chloe, honey, just because I don’t think Kristin and Devon were the healthiest thing for each other doesn’t mean I don’t want
you
to be the rebound.”

Whoa. This is so not where I thought this conversation was going. Coming into the kitchen, I’d assumed I was going to get a
good sisters don’t poach the ex
lecture, and instead I’m getting a
he’s out of your league
pep talk?

I’m not gonna lie. That my own mother thinks I’m not good enough for Devon Patterson
stings
.

A lot.

“It’s just drinks, Mom. Just drinks with a friend. Who happens to be a guy.”

She gives me one last look that says she knows better before sliding her glasses and returning to her magazine. “Well. Have fun.”

Yeah. Because
that
little chat didn’t put a damper on the evening
at all.

But by the time I get to the bar, I’ve more or less brushed off my mom’s concerns.

After all . . . this isn’t a date. It’s a drink with a friend. A friend I happen to be in love with, but Devon’s not in love with me, so
really
not a chance of me getting my heart broken. My heart’s been in a holding pattern for, like, ten years now. It can hold out a bit longer.

Pig and Scout’s parking lot is almost completely full. Unsurprising since it’s Saturday night. I squeeze my Audi between two pickups, and am just about to walk in the door when I get a text from Dev.

Forgot I had to get gas. Be ten late.

I text back.
No prob. See you in a few.

Once inside, I head to the bar. I tell myself it’s because I don’t see any open tables, but a tiny annoying part of me knows it’s because Beefcake often tends bar on Saturday nights.

And if the second looks I’m getting in my painted-on jeans are any indication, I may stand a
little
chance of making him regret what he turned down on that wretched Fourth of July.

I find a spot at the corner of the bar, ignoring the old dude who stares way too obviously at my chest, and wait.

Beefcake is working all right. He’s got more stubble than usual, which, obnoxiously, works really well, and his jeans are low-slung and dark. He’s got another of those damn tight T-shirts—black this time—and I can just make out the bottom of that mysterious tattoo on his bicep.

He doesn’t see me. He does that bartender thing where he jams a glass cup into a metal shaker and then lifts both over his shoulder to shake up whatever cocktail he’s working on. The motion causes his shirt to ride up just a little, and I can make out a strip of his underwear.

Boxers? Briefs?

Not that I care. I totally don’t.

I’m betting boxers. No, briefs. Or maybe—

“Hey, sugar, what can I get ya?”

Belatedly I finally register that the other bartender is standing in front of me. A decent-looking guy with curly dark-blond hair and an easy smile. See, now
this
is the type of guy whose undergarments I should be interested in. He seems friendly. Normal.

Non-scowling.

Non-damaged.

“Gin and tonic, please.”

“You got it.” He winks.

A cute guy just winked at me. That’s new.

I run a hand over my smooth hair and glance toward the door. No sign of Devon.

A drink appears in front of me. “Thanks,” I say, reaching for it, but pausing when I see it’s not adorned with the usual citrus garnish.

Instead of a lime, there are three cherries.

Slowly, I lift my eyes.

“Hey, Michael.”

He is so not happy to see me. Which doesn’t make sense. I mean, I just saw him two days ago at the gym, although admittedly our personal training sessions have been a little . . .
strained
since the whole kissing episode.

Mistake. The kissing
mistake
.

“What are you doing here?”

I lift my glass in a
cheers
motion. “Such a friendly neighborhood bar this is.”

“You meeting your friends again?”

“I am.” I take a sip of the drink.

I don’t bother to specify that it’s only one friend. His half brother, to be precise.

Michael’s hands are on the bar, his arms spread wide as his dark gaze drifts over me, although instead of lingering on my cleavage like most guys, he seems more preoccupied by my hair.

“You look different,” he says, finally.

I roll my eyes. It’s not like I was expecting a compliment. Not from him. But I might have been
wanting
one. Just a little. Also, what’s with the surprised routine? This whole fitness thing was his stupid idea.

“And you look tired,” I snap.

Which he does. There are circles under his eyes, and I don’t think the extra stubble I noticed earlier is an intentional change. I think it’s an
I forgot or didn’t have time to shave
thing.

He pushes back from the bar. “Good seeing you, Chlo.”

“Thanks for the drink!” I call sweetly.

I don’t get it with that guy. Sometimes I get the feeling that he wants to tell me something. That he wants to talk. That he wants to be my friend.

And other times . . .

“Hey.”

I spin around on my bar stool. “Devon! Hey!”

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, scanning the bar.

“No worries. Do you want to try and grab a table, or—”

“Nah, there’s nothing open. We can hang here.”

There aren’t two spots open together at the bar, so Devon slides in between me and the creepy old man, turning his body to face me as he leans against the bar.

Only then does he give me his full attention, and that’s when I realize that every bit of soreness I’ll have in my arms tomorrow from the epic exercise that is Straightening Chloe’s Hair will be worth it.

Because then Devon
sees
me.

And he looks stunned. And maybe a little admiring?

“You look great.”

I smile. “Well, that’s better than
different,
which is what I got from our charming bartender.”

As if on cue, Michael turns toward us and does a double take. I see him whisper something to the blond bartender, and the other guy gives a
whatever
shrug.

I have a good feeling that Beefcake had every intention of letting the other guy take over my tab, but he’s changed his mind now that he’s seen Devon.

For a half second, I feel sorry for Beefcake. It has to be weird seeing your half brother who has no idea you even exist.

But my sympathy fades. The only reason Devon doesn’t know the truth is because Michael St. Claire is all talk, no action.

He pours a couple beers for a group of rowdy dudes before making his way toward us.

“What are you drinking?” Beefcake asks Devon, his voice curt.

“Hey!” Devon says, leaning across the bar to shake Michael’s hand. “I forgot you worked here as well as the club.”

“Yup.”

I have the urge to kick Michael. He’s not going to make progress on the brotherly bonding
that
way.

Devon, thankfully, seems oblivious to Michael’s rudeness. His gaze drops to my drink. “I’ll have what she’s having, minus the cherries.”

Devon smiles. Michael doesn’t smile back. I sigh.

Michael’s back in moments with Devon’s drink, but to my surprise—and annoyance—he doesn’t move away.

“You guys meeting friends?” Michael asks.

“Nah, it’s just us tonight,” Devon says, giving me a little smile.

I smile back, and very deliberately do not look to see if Michael is paying attention, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Michael move away.

Probably in disgust.

Or indifference.

Devon’s attention returns to my
different than usual
appearance, and because he’s a gentleman, his eyes linger only the tiniest bit on my boobs.

Most of his attention is on my hair, which, I can tell, is hurting his brain. He’s a guy, and in my experience, guys really do not understand the magic that can be worked with heat styling. Straight hair can become curly, curly hair can become straight, and if the humidity’s not too high, and if you spend a gazillion dollars on the right product, and if the gods are favoring you, you just might be able to make frizzy hair smooth.