Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3) (2 page)

She nods, wiping her tears with her hands. “Anything.”

“I need you to promise that you’ll let me take care of whatever situation Fisher’s in. You take care of yourself, okay? Especially school.”

She pauses, but then gives a small nod. “Will you keep me posted?”

“You’ll be the first to know the second I find anything.”

She smiles and pulls me into a hug. “Thank you, Harrington.”

I smile and pat her head. “You’re a good kid, Anna.”

She pushes back and pouts. “I’m nineteen.”

“Exactly. A kid.” I ruffle her hair.

Anna takes a hesitant step back. “Thank you, Harrington. Seriously.”

I nod once. “Anytime, kid.” I look at my watch. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you go freshen up, and I’ll call you a cab.”

She picks up her bag, dropping her phone back into it. As soon as she disappears behind the closed door of the bathroom, I call the cab service and schedule her a ride back to the dorms. She’s still in the bathroom by the time I’m done, so I decide that now is as good a time as any to make one more call. To Fisher.

As per usual, he doesn’t answer. So I leave a message: “Call me back, you lying son of a bitch, or I’m gonna have to come after you.”

THE SOUND OF my phone ringing pulls me back to the waking world, and I blearily fumble for it, my fingers stumbling across the night stand until they finally close around the offensive object. “Hello?” I answer it in a half-daze.

“You’re still asleep?” Judgment drips from the edges of a voice I don’t recognize. Male. Youngish. Grating.

I rub my eyes sleepily, squinting against the early morning sun seeping through my blinds, looking for the clock across my bedroom. It stares back, blinking. 3:18 a.m. Great. I guess we lost power at some point.

“This is Tom. Manager of The Torque?”  

Oh
,
shit
.

I shoot up to a sitting position and swing my legs over the bed. “Yes! Hi, Tom.”

I can’t believe he actually called. I’d stumbled on an ad in the local newspaper while busing tables at Blue Tango last week—an open audition call to be the temporary drummer in a local band.  

Drumming’s always been a passion of mine. My third grade teacher once caught me playing with two branches, one in each hand, pattering out a rhythm against the concrete sidewalk and the electricity pole as I waited for Vincent to appear. She’d introduced me to the elementary school’s music teacher, Miss Winters, but since my family couldn’t afford musical instruments, I couldn’t take part in the school’s one and only Fine Arts program.

But that never stopped me. Playing the drums just came easily to me, natural, like breathing. So when I saw the opportunity to get back into it, even if only temporarily, I took it. I went and auditioned.

I knew I was doing amazing; the entire band’s eyes were wide and excited five seconds into my solo. But doubt had started to eat away at my confidence when I saw the way Tom watched me afterward, with a sort of disappointment and anger. I knew he had lot of say in the final decision, and I was certain I’d never hear from them again.

Like ever.

But now, here he is . . . on the phone.

I adjust my top, then my shorts, as if he can see my unkempt appearance, and then take a deep breath. I’d do just about anything to play the drums professionally. Even if it means having to endure his constant glare.

Drumming is my solace.

My peace.

“I never thought I’d see the day I would have to make this call.” His voice is smug, condescending, and my dislike toward him kicks up a notch. “A girl. In a band. When there is far better talent.” He laughs.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“But the guys have spoken. They think it’ll make them seem more diverse or whatever.” He sighs, like it’s killing him to even talk to me.

Jerkface
.

“You there?” he snaps.

“Y-yes.” And I absolutely hate that I stumble in response.

He mumbles something unintelligible. “The guys want you to come back and audition again, with them. If that goes well, you’re in on probation. Can you make it happen next Tuesday?”

God, I hate him so damn much. But I nod, and then add, “Yes.”

“All right then,
girl
.” The word “girl” is emphasized in a way that makes him sound like he’s a million years old, like some bitter old man chiding me for stepping on his lawn. It’s so patronizing that I nearly laugh. “I’ll text you the details. We’ll see you there. Goodbye.”

The line goes dead and I groan, feeling under-appreciated. But the annoyance is soon replaced with a giddy rush of joy. I might get to play the drums again.

Soon.

Holy smokes, Spider-Man.

This is too good to be true.

Could I really get this lucky? A lot of amazing things have happened since I moved away and took my life into my own hands. I found a place to live, with a roommate who’s interesting to say the least, and a job that allows me to both pay the bills
and
save.  

And now this. I couldn’t be happier with the way things have been turning out. Hopping off the bed, I head toward the clock, still blinking at me with its incorrect time from the carpet next to my closet. I pick it up and click the buttons until it’s set to 8:40 a.m. Satisfied, I set it back on the chest where it belongs and turn toward my closet.

I pull on the first decent thing I find—navy blue sweats, the pair I borrowed from Vincent after some asshole spilled alcohol on me at a party—and head out of my room. I walk past Catherina’s room, knowing full well she won’t be up this early—she had to work the night shift last night—and then quietly exit the apartment.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing at my favorite place—the half-way point of a red bridge overlooking the river. Placing my arms on the rails, I take a deep breath of the sweet Florida-fall air and let it out with a happy sigh.

The water glistens in the sunshine, and the array of colors in the surrounding trees adds vibrancy to the normally colorless river below. It’s breathtaking.

It reminds me of home, of the hikes Vincent and I used to take his little brothers on. I feel a sharp pang of loneliness. I miss my best friend.

Plop
.
Plop
.
Plop
.

The sound of something sinking into the water catches my attention.

I turn and see a man down by the water, about five yards from the bridge. He bends over, picking at something in the duff on the riverbank, and then straightens. He’s holding a stone. He examines it, turning it back and forth in his fingers, before he chucks it into the river. I squint, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me; he looks an awful lot like Vincent. But that’s impossible. He couldn’t be here, right?

I run off the bridge and head down the narrow path toward him, a little out of breath. I’m so gonna kill him if he’s here and didn’t tell me.

“Vincent—”

The guy turns around. He’s definitely not Vincent. For starters, he’s a good three or so inches taller, and his blondish hair is trimmed so close to his head it looks like its shaved. In fact, the five o’clock shadow on his jawline is almost the same length as his hair.

His eyebrows are raised, and his eyes, even behind his black-rimmed glasses, are a striking hazel, with specks of blue and green that almost make them impossible to describe.

“Sorry.” I grimace, feeling my hope pop like a bubble. “I thought you were someone else.”

A smile quirks his lips upward as he flips another stone over in his hand. Then he chucks it into the river, like he’s throwing a baseball. It sinks with a plop. He turns back to me, a sort of smugness in the way he looks at me.

Assessing. Studying. Objectifying.

“I don’t mind,” the guy says, walking closer.

I blink.

“A girl like you can stalk me all you like.”

My defenses go up. I place my hands on my hips. “Excuse me?”

“It’s fine. Go ahead. Stare, dissect, picture me naked, whatever, anytime you like. I don’t mind.”

I scoff, my eyebrow raised.
Is he serious?

He laughs, his mouth quirking. But I find my gaze wandering to the cut just above his eyebrow. I wonder how he got that?

“So, I’m curious,” he says, bringing my attention back to his crooked smile. “Where did you rate me at? Eleven maybe? On a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest?”

A nine, potentially a ten. But saying that out loud is out of the question. Not with his ego. “Zero,” I respond, folding my arms over myself.

He chuckles. “Snarky
and
beautiful. I like.” He extends his hand. “Harrington,” he says, and then pauses, like he’s said too much.

“Harri—” I snort, ignoring his hand.

He drops it and glares slightly, his good humor faltering.

I cover my mouth to hold back a giggle. “Are you serious?”

He waves his hand dismissively and turns around, bending down to pick up another rock.

“Yeah. My thoughts exactly. My parents . . .” he says, pausing like he’s looking for the right words, “were thinking unique. I was thinking why have me, if all you want is to scar me for the rest of my life.”  

“It’s not
that
bad.”

He looks over his shoulder, shakes his head, and turns forward again. “You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

He has a point there. I run my hand over my mouth, like I’m wiping away bread crumbs, hoping to regain some control.

He flicks his wrist, releasing the rock with oomph. It sinks.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” I say, pointing to the ripples where his rock sank.

He turns around again, his eyebrow raised skeptically. “And how would you know?”

I bite my tongue, stopping myself from responding. I should go; it’s none of my business. But then again, he looks frustrated, his eyebrows crinkling as he hunts for another rock to sink. Maybe I could just give him a pointer or two . . .

No! It’s
not
my business. I turn around swiftly, with every intention of walking away, because that’s what the new me
should
do.

I don’t get very far, though, before I hear the tell-tale sound of a stone sinking. I sigh, and then pivot and march right back to where I was before. The old me obviously has a stronger will than the new me.

“You really suck at that,” I say.

He turns and looks at me, that smug smirk etching his mouth again. “And I thought you were leaving. Couldn’t bring yourself to leave behind a zero?”

I jerk my chin in his direction. “Hardly. I just hate watching so many rocks sacrifice themselves to your sucktastic rock-skipping skills.”

He tosses another stone over his head and winks. “I don’t know. I thought I kinda nailed that one.”

I roll my eyes. “In what universe?”

“The one where I’m
always
right.”

Wow. He did not just say that. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

He snorts. “No shit, sweetheart. What gave
that
away?”

I choose to ignore the obvious sarcasm and point at him. “Your form sucks. And you can’t use those bulky stones. Here, I’ll show you.” I search the area and find a skinny, flat round rock that’s about the size of my palm. I toss it over a few times to check the feel in my hands. Placing my index finger along its edge, I turn sideways and snap my wrist forward, quickly flicking the rock—like an underhand softball—to let it spin counter-clockwise.

“Four!” Harrington says in awe.

I shrug. Not my best. But better than his sunken stones. I pick up another and hand it to him. “Now you try.”

He arches one perfect thick eyebrow.

“It’s really simple,” I say. “Watch.” I demonstrate again, holding the stone between my thumb and index finger. I adjust my form, angling myself into a stable position. I then look back over my shoulder to catch his eye, only to find his gaze glued to my rear. I huff and snap my fingers. “Hell-o!
Harry
!”

His head snaps up to meet my glare.

I point two fingers at him, then turn them to point at my eyes. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

He grins, not even slightly embarrassed at being caught.

Unbelievable.

“You watching?” I ask, turning back around, getting into position, and letting the rock fly, turning my body gracefully with the movement.

“Do you throw rocks often?” he asks.

I quirk an eyebrow and place my hands on my hips. “What do you think?”

“I asked you first.” He grins. “Tell me, how did you learn to throw rocks? Is this like a hobby?”

I tilt my head to the side and eye him. I’ve worked at a bar for over two years now; I know flirting when I see it. And this guy’s definitely a full-on flirt. But there’s something a little off about the way he’s flirting. Almost like he’s doing it just to annoy me. And damn if I don’t find that intriguing. Not that I’ll give him the satisfaction of knowing it’s working.

I shake my head. “Want to give it a try?”

He waves his hand. “I think you should show me again. I didn’t quite catch it the last time.”