Wicked Sexy Liar
Page 3

“Rigorous,” I tell him. “I performed the clinical trials myself.”
I can see him biting back a broader laugh. “Then you’ll be comforted to know that I was in fact not ordering Heineken, and was actually going to ask what you had on tap because we just had a round of Stella, and I wanted something more interesting.”
Without looking down at the row of draft beers, I list, “Bud, Stone IPA, Pliny the Elder, Guinness, Allagash White, and Green Flash.”
“We’ll go with the Pliny,” he says, and I try to hide how much this surprises me—an occupational necessity. He must know his beers because it’s the best choice there. “Six of them, please. I’m Luke, by the way. Luke Sutter.”
He holds out his hand and after only a moment of hesitation, I take it.
“Nice to meet you, Luke.”
His hand is huge, not too soft . . . and really nice. With long fingers, clean nails, and a strong grip. I pull my own hand back almost immediately and begin pouring his beers.
“And your name is . . .” he asks, the last word stretching into a question.
“That’ll be thirty dollars,” I tell him instead.
Luke’s smile twists a little, amused, and he looks down at his wallet, pulling two twenties out and placing them on top of the bar. He reaches for the first three glasses and nods to me before he turns. “I’ll be back to get the rest,” he says. And he’s gone.
The door opens and a bachelorette party files in. Over the next three hours I make more pink drinks and sexually explicit cocktails than I can count, and whether it’s Luke or one of the other guys who ends up grabbing the rest of their beers, I don’t notice. Which is just as well, I remind myself, because if there’s one rule I’ve made that I stick to hard and fast, it’s that I don’t date guys I meet at work. Ever.
And Luke is . . . well, he’s a reflection of every reason rule number one exists in the first place.
* * *
WHEN THE LAST customer has left, I help Fred close up, drive home to an empty apartment, and tumble into bed.
My parents are less than thrilled with the life I’ve built in San Diego, and are careful to remind me of this at every visit. They don’t understand why I took a roommate when Nana left me the loft, free and clear. Although I spent much of my childhood here, they also don’t understand why I didn’t just sell the loft after graduation and move right back home—which, come on. Freezing Colorado over sunny San Diego? I don’t think so. And they definitely don’t agree with my surfing all day and tending bar at night when the graphic arts degree I busted my ass for is sitting around, gathering dust.
And okay, I’ll give them that last one.
But for now, I’m fine with my life. Lola worries that I’m alone too much—and I am alone a lot of the time, but I’m never unhappy. Bartending is a fun job, and surfing is bigger than that. It’s a part of me. I love watching water slowly rising and curling, seeing the tips break into these foamy, glass cylinders. I love climbing inside waves so big they tunnel me in as they crest, roaring in my ear. I love the feel of salt-water-rich air filling my mouth, dusting my lungs. Every second the ocean builds a castle and breaks it down. I will never get tired of it.
And I like falling into bed, tired because I’ve surfed my ass off all day and been on my feet all night, and not because I’ve been sitting at a desk, staring at a computer.
For now, life is pretty good.
* * *
BUT AT THE start of my shift at Fred’s Saturday night, I feel both wrecked and antsy: my ribs hurt and I still have the sensation of coughing up a lungful of salt water.
Some days the ocean cooperates and the waves come right to me. Today was not one of those days. The swells were decent at first, but I couldn’t seem to hit a single one. I took off early or popped up late. I lost count of how many times I fell or was knocked flat on my ass. I spent every holiday of my life precollege at my grandmother’s, and I’ve surfed Black’s Beach and Windansea since I was old enough to carry my own board. But the longer I stayed out there today the more frustrated I got, and the last straw came when I was surprised by a big wave, and rolled . . . hard.
The guy with the hair and the smile is back. Luke, I remember, in some sort of breathy echo. He’s at a booth tonight with more of his friends, but I spot him as soon as I walk in.
The place is packed and I feel a brief pulse of longing when I hear Harlow’s laugh rise above the music. I’d rather be sitting with them than working tonight, and so I have a noticeable chip on my shoulder by the time I step behind the counter and slip my apron over my shirt.
“Someone’s having a bad day,” Fred says, putting the finishing touches on a tray of margaritas. “Weren’t you the one who told me the worst day on the water still beats the best day anywhere else?”
Ugh. I did tell him that. Why do people always remind you of your best parts when you’re having a bad day? “Just sore and cranky,” I say, trying to smile. “I’ll get over it.”
“Well, you’re in the right place. Loud drunk people are always the right thing for a bad mood.”
This pulls my reluctant grin free, and Fred reaches forward, gently chucking my chin.
A row of tickets sit on the counter and I reach for one. Two martinis, dirty, extra olives. I place two glasses on a tray, fill a shaker with ice, pour in vermouth and four ounces of gin, a little olive juice. I fall into the rhythm of the work: measuring, shaking, pouring, serving . . . and the familiar movements relax me, they do.
But I still feel restless with the breathlessness, the few terrifying seconds I thought I might not be able to fight my way up from the tide. It’s happened to me a handful of times, and even though logically I know I’ll be okay, it’s hard to shake the lingering sense of drowning.
Luke moves in my peripheral vision, and I glance up as he walks around the back of the booth, typing on his phone. So he’s one of those, I think, imagining how many girls he’s texting right now. There’s a brunette at their table who seems pretty interested in what he’s doing, and I’m tempted to walk over to her under the guise of serving drinks and tell her to cut her losses: invest in one of the kind nerds in the far booth instead.
I shake and pour the cloudy liquid into the glasses, rereading the ticket again before adding two skewers packed with olives. The waitress smiles and leaves with the order, and I move to the next, reaching for a bottle of amaretto when I hear a barstool scrape across the floor behind me.
“So how’s the car fund?”
I recognize his voice immediately. “Nothing today,” I tell him without looking up, finishing the drink. “But I’m not really in a smiling mood, so I’m not holding out much hope.”
“Want to talk about that?” he asks.
I turn to look at him: this time wearing a dark blue T-shirt, same perfect hair, and still entirely too good-looking not to be trouble. Unable to resist, I give him a tiny smile. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”
Luke acknowledges this with a cute flick of one eyebrow skyward before glancing back at his group.
“Besides, it looks like you’ve got some people waiting for you,” I say, noting the way the brunette’s eyes track his every move. He reaches into his pocket, checks his phone, and looks back at me.
“They’re not going anywhere,” he says, and his eyes smile a split second before his lips make that soft, crooked curve. “Figured I’d come up here and get myself a drink.”