Unruly (15 page)

“She told me everything.” I shook my head. “You and me? We were a mistake, Noah. We're never going back to that.”

“Why? We had fun, Ellie,” he said. He offered me the sort of smile I used to find endearing. Tonight it just made me wonder if he'd been manipulating me all along.

I slid off the barstool. “I need air.”

I took a deep breath, stepped around him, and walked away. I kept walking out the door and into the parking lot. He didn't follow, and I was grateful for that small victory.

There were only a few motorcycles in the lot tonight. It was strange to see it so empty, but there was obviously something going on out of town because they'd all left in a thunderous roar earlier. Now it was just a few stragglers in the bar and our little group. Until recently Killer would've gone with them, and that was perhaps the oddest thing—seeing them all roll out without him.

I leaned against the wall, wondering if Alamo had gone with the club on tonight's event. I didn't know where they went or why. In a lot of cases, it was best not to know.

The door opened with a screech. The hinges were intentionally left unoiled to make a loud noise on opening. Bikers weren't keen on being startled. Neither were those of us who grew up around them.

Killer came outside, obviously looking for me and just as obviously not making a big thing about it. He hadn't been the easiest person to talk to the past few years, but that had changed a lot since he'd gotten with Aubrey. Of course, getting shot had probably been a factor, as had Echo finally owning up to being Killer's dad. A lot had changed, and with it, Killer had too. He'd become more approachable, closer to the person I'd known when I was a kid.

“Are you okay?”

I had wiped my tears away already, so aside from my red eyes and the fact that I was standing outside alone, there was little proof that I was not okay. I smiled with effort before saying, “You know Noah and me. We argue.”

Killer shook his head and staunchly declared, “It's his fault. Always has been.”

I laughed. “That's not what you used to say. ‘Ellie Belly, you're too much of a hard-ass.' Or ‘Ellie Belly, you're going to make Dash have a mental breakdown.' ”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Killer said lightly.

“Liar.”

He lit a cigarette, glanced at me sideways, and muttered, “I'm going to quit. I promised, but . . . not yet.” He took a long drag, savoring the smoke, and then exhaled before adding, “You know he cares about you, right?”

“I do. We're friends.” I reached out and took Killer's cigarette without bothering to ask. We'd all three started smoking as kids. I was the only one who'd mostly quit. Tonight, though, I wanted a couple moments of nicotine peace.

“He thought you'd forgive him forever,” Killer said. “He figured you and I would both forgive him for the things he said to Red. I forgave him already.”

“He's not
my
cousin,” I said drolly.

Killer grinned. “He didn't stand a chance with Red. We all knew it.” Killer paused and waited until I looked at him before adding, “Just like we all knew you two weren't going to end up working out.”

“Yeah, well, he somehow doesn't get that.” I ignored Killer's outstretched hand, and after a frown he lit a second cigarette. I didn't feel like sharing, even though it was his cigarette.

Killer scanned the parking lot in the way he always had. Even though he wasn't part of the club after this week, he still acted like he was on guard duty most of the time. I wondered briefly if the Marine Corps knew that their new recruit was already trained and in better shape than most seasoned Marines.

“You two have been hopping back into bed since he figured out that you weren't just one of the guys. No one knows what changed, but whatever it was, Dash thought you'd get over it.” Killer didn't ask outright, but it was obvious that the question was there.

“He forgot my dad's death anniversary,” I admitted in a voice almost too low to hear. “The week I walked out on him . . . he'd forgotten.”

Killer winced.

“Of all the people in the world, Noah was the one who shouldn't have forgotten.” I shook my head, staring out into the street rather than looking at Killer. “I think I could've kept forgiving him for tossing me aside. I think I could've even pretended not to notice the proof that there were other women even when we were together the same week. I forgave a lot.”

“You did,” Killer agreed. “I never got why.”

“We both lost our dads.” I shrugged, trying to find the right words that explained without hurting Killer's feelings. “You had yours. No one said it, but Echo was always your dad. I had Mama, and Noah had . . .”

“No one,” Killer finished. “I get what you're trying to say, but we both had Uncle Karl. He was a good dad to both of us.”

“Having someone leave or not say they're your dad isn't the same as your dad
dying
.” I thought back to sitting outside wrapped up in blankets watching the stars with Noah, talking about our dads being dead. We kissed the first time that night. It wasn't like we were trying to exclude Killer, but his dad was still there. His mom wasn't dead either. Me? I had my mother, but my dad was dead. Noah was alone. I thought about that night over the years when I got mad at him. I made a lot of excuses for him that I wouldn't for anyone else.

“You know Echo's going to try to draw him in now,” Killer said. “He told me that if I'm not going to stick around, that leaves Dash to fill that role and see how things are done. He doesn't like not having someone around that he can groom to be his heir. Crazy old man thinks he's a king or something.”

There was a new sort of ease when Killer talked about his father. As a rule, people didn't call Eddie Echo crazy—unless it was a tale of what a badass he was.
That
sort of crazy was okay.

“Noah isn't like you,” I said carefully. “He could be like Echo . . . but he's not . . .” My words drifted off. There was no nice way to say that Noah wouldn't be as comfortable with shooting or beating a man. “He
could
do it, but it's never going to sit right with him.”

“Echo knows that.” Killer sighed. “Noah's better with money and planning. I wasn't ever going to be able to run the club. Thought about that when I was in the hospital. I don't have any grief with it. I'd already decided to leave by then, but Echo . . . he needs to let Dash be himself, and that's not a triggerman.”

As casually as I could, I asked, “What about Alamo? He seems like he's staying, and he's . . . more like you.”

Killer stared at me for a minute, shook his head, and told me, “You need to get things straight with Dash before you go asking about Alamo.”

There I was trying to be gentle, and Killer had to be an ass. Seriously, I got that he and Noah were family in a way I wasn't, but this was a step too far. I dropped the cigarette to the parking lot and ground it out with a bit more energy than maybe I needed to use. “I
left
Noah. It's been six damn months. How much straighter do I need to be?”

“I'm saying this as your friend, Ellie. Talk to Dash when you're both calm and sober. Let him know that you're not coming back. Echo doesn't need trouble in the house over a woman, even though that woman is one we
all
know and love. You got me?”

I nodded, and he went back inside and left me there alone. Maybe he was right. From the sounds of it, he knew more than I did about Noah's idiocy. How the man could think that I'd be back was beyond me, but obviously he was delusional.

Tonight, though, I wasn't up to any more confrontations. I had an interview with Southern Belle Industries on Monday. It wasn't a lot of money if I got it, but it was a potential door-opener. So I was going home and sorting through my portfolio of designs and the closet of clothes I'd made from those designs.

I walked over to my car and opened the door, thinking of one of Mama's few favorite phrases that wasn't from the South: “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” It was an old feminist phrase coined by a lady called Irina Dunn, which was a tidbit I'd learned myself. Mama just knew she'd read it on a T-shirt, and she liked it so much that it had become a standby phrase in my home.

I had no need for a man
or
a bicycle. I might want a man, but I didn't
need
one. What I could use, though, was a job. That meant succeeding in this interview.

Chapter 14

M
Y PREPARATION FOR MY INTERVIEW WAS AS THOROUGH
as I could make it. I'd dressed carefully, prepared, and even scored a relatively decent parking spot so I wasn't walking too far in the humidity. Walking inside the office building made me think of those day spas that were trying awfully hard to be fancier than they really were. Lipstick on a pig could go only so far, and a nondescript office building in the South was still what it was no matter how much lipstick was applied. It wasn't New York or Paris or Milan—and truth be told, I wasn't expecting it to be. Those places, I suspected, were all perfectly fine, but my take on the world was more loving what you are than trying to be something you weren't. That went for clothes and buildings as much as it did for people.

After a brief wait in a remarkably uncomfortable chair in a room with the sort of soulless music that made me want to sing out loud just to drown out the noise, I was called back to a stark office.

The walls were covered with framed magazine covers and assorted other pages. It was more of a “look at us” wall than decoration. The office itself was mostly windows and minimal furniture.

“Ellen Gillham,” the woman who was apparently interviewing me read off the papers in front of her. She glanced at me and gestured at another stiff, modern chair.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said as I took my seat.

She looked at me again in silent assessment. Her expression, like her tone, couldn't have been less enthusiastic if she were paid to be so. Her glass and metal desk was almost completely barren, and the only eye-catcher was the vibrant red of her shoes. Staring at her feet seemed a little too submissive for my taste, but I silently awarded her points for the tactic.

After a few moments, she looked back at the file, skimming my résumé and letter.

“Pitch me,” she said.

“Okay . . . well . . . I'm interested in joining the Southern Belle team. I've been working on my associate's degree and—”

“Do you have any skills that set you apart?” She was now examining her nails—which were apparently
terribly
engrossing.

“My portfolio highlights—”

“I don't need a designer,” she said blandly, not even looking up from her manicure as she continued to study her fingertips as if there were lottery numbers written on her perfectly tipped claws. When she finally looked up, she added, “Everyone thinks they're special. They're wrong.”

For a moment, I considered letting my ugly words fly free. My designs were
good
, and I was a fabulous singer and a great daughter. Maybe I wasn't what
she
thought of as special, but I was a far way from common. I opened my mouth to tell her that, but she spoke before I uttered a word.

“I'll go through your designs, and if they're actually worth anything, I'll pass them on,” she said. “Chelsea at the desk will validate your parking.”

And at that, I was apparently dismissed. The whole interview, if it could even be called that, was over in minutes. It wasn't the biggest slap my ego had ever taken, but it sure as hell wasn't fun.

I wandered around until I found a little country and bluegrass bar I remembered from years ago and went inside.

“Do you have any use for a singer for a couple songs?” I asked the bartender. “My father, Roger Gillham, used to sing here sometimes and . . .”

The bartender looked at me and said, “That don't mean you can sing, sweetheart.”

“True, but . . .” I closed my eyes and started to sing Alison Krauss' “Down to the River to Pray.”

When I was only a couple of lines in, he cut me off and said, “Point made. I'm not paying anything, but you want to sing, go on ahead.”

By evening, my mood was tolerable enough that I could drive home without feeling like my temper and disappointment were going to rise up and choke me. I should've left a bit earlier, but I hadn't expected the sort of storm that was thundering around me now.

The rain was making it damn near impossible to see the road as I drove back home. Singing had been good, but the reason I'd driven into town was an interview that had
sucked
. The only cure—yet again—was more music or someone sweet to improve my mood. Since I was (a) single and (b) in my Civic in the middle of a downpour on a backcountry road, I was singing along with the radio, flipping between country and classic rock stations, and venting my ugly mood by belting out songs.