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Seared on my Soul

Entangled Publishing, LLC

Emily

The bass beat thumps so loud, pulsing through the ground into the soles of my feet. Several times my heel catches the edge of a pothole, nearly sending me sprawling onto the crumbling parking lot. The triple shot iced mocha in my hand sloshes loudly with each near-fall.

The dumpster nestled against the bar is so full the lid rests halfway open on top of a mound of garbage bags and cardboard boxes. The sickly sweet smell of rot and fried food permeates the parking lot.

Graffiti decorates the entire south wall of the crumbling brick building. A dented and rusted rain gutter hangs on for dear life, held in place by a single screw. The place is a hell pit. A beautiful, glorious hell pit where they serve magical beverages that make me forget all about my sucky-ass job serving lattes and scones to ungrateful hipsters and jackasses in suits — at least for the night, anyway.

I place my hand against the sticky glass door and pause, casting one last glance over my shoulder. I know he won't be there — and he's not. Habit, I guess. After our dad died, my older brother felt it was his duty to trail me like a shadow. Now that he's in a serious relationship, I guess he has better things to do than follow me around on weekends to make sure I stay out of trouble.

Thank fucking God.

Confirming the lot behind me is indeed free of stalker-brothers, I smile. Despite feeling like I've waited forever for the day I could go out without my brother breathing down my neck, now that it's here I pictured something ... more. In my head I imagined fireworks and a parade. I saw myself riding in the back of a convertible, waving to my adoring fans, and wearing a sash that read Emily is a motherfucking adult now.

The reality is ... anticlimactic.

Without Lane trailing me and dictating my every move, I can finally get myself into some good, old-fashioned trouble. The problem is, there's not a lot of trouble to be had in a dull-ass Midwestern town like Springfield, Illinois.

And that sucks.

The front doors of the bar are coated in a yellow haze of nicotine residue. Even though cigarettes are no longer permitted indoors, the smells of smoke, grease from the kitchen, and beer saturate the air inside, oozing into my pores. I shiver happily.

Beyond the crammed dance floor, band members scramble to lug their amps and instruments out onto the stage. Careful not to jostle the drink in my hand, I slide through the mass of bodies, until I reach the smooth lacquer of the bar's edge. I set the coffee down on the sticky surface, only to have it immediately snatched.

"You are a life saver," Ren the bartender shouts over the buzz of voices laughing and shouting. "Triple shot?"

"What am I? New?" I scan the crowd for my best friend Ashlyn, who happens to be Lane's girlfriend. I introduced them when I took Ash to my brother's studio to get a tattoo covered up. I had no idea at the time Ash was living out of her car to escape her abusive step-dad. Lane rented her the shitty apartment above his studio and it didn't take long for sparks to fly.

I'm happy for them, but I still don't get it. Who knew some girls find "perpetually grumpy" a turn on?

Ren smiles and cups the drink in her hands. She's wearing a tank top and, like me, ink decorates both her arms from shoulders to wrists. It doesn't matter her black hair is pulled into a messy bun or that her eye liner is smudged around her slanted eyes, she looks gorgeous as usual. Lucky for me she's picky with her men — and women depending on her mood — so we've never been at odds over a guy.

Ren takes a long sip, after which she sighs. "You're an angel, Em. There was no way I was going to get through the night without this." After another sip, she reaches into the cooler and grabs a cider, twisting the cap off before placing it in front of me. She leans across the bar and juts her chin toward the crowd gathering around the stage. "So, who's it going to be?"

"Not tonight, Renny. It's girls' night. No boys allowed."

Ren leans back, nodding approvingly. "Ashlyn coming up?"

I nod, taking a swig of my drink. A bit of cider dribbles from the corner of my mouth. I lick it, careful not to dislodge the rhinestone piercing above my lip. Along with my rockabilly style, the piercing is homage to my idol, Marilyn Monroe.

"Good," she says. "I haven't seen much of her lately."

That makes two of us, I think, pulling out a tube of red lipstick — the same color as the bandana tied around my platinum curls — and touch up my lips. When I'm finished, I take another drink to swallow the sour resentment burning up the back of my throat. I get that Ashlyn's pursuing her dreams, and I'm super happy she's all in love or whatever — especially when she makes my brother and niece equally happy. But now that she's either in school, studying, or doing whatever it is in-love people do together, there's very little time left for her to hang out with me.

"Em! Hey, Em."

I glance up and find Ashlyn squeezing through the crowd to get to me. She's not exactly dressed for a night out. Her face is makeup-free, eyes dark and tired looking. Her brown hair hangs slightly askew in a limp ponytail. And she's wearing a paint-splattered t-shirt and a pair of yoga pants. Ashlyn, God love her, has always had minimal fashion sense, but this is a little basic even for her.

I frown. "Honey, you didn't suffer a stroke, did you?" I ask when she reaches the bar. "I mean, you do realize what you're wearing, right?"

She playfully swats my shoulder. "I missed you, too."

Ren deposits a whiskey neat in front of her before spinning away to answer the calls for beer at the opposite end of the bar.

"Thanks, Ren!" Ash calls after her before taking a sip.

"So the outfit ..." I prompt. "Did you change plans without telling me? Are we going to Pilates or something?"

Ash rolls her eyes. "You seriously have no idea the kind of day I've had."

"You're right," I agree. "Because I never see you anymore."

She flinches and sets her drink back on the bar. "Oh, Em. I know. I'm so sorry. It's just with school, and finals, and —"

She looks so uncomfortable I actually feel guilty for bringing it up. "It's okay. You've got a lot going on. I understand." And I do. Still, there's this selfish part of me that misses hanging out with my best friend. And maybe, just maybe, if I'm completely honest with myself, there's another part of me — a much, much, smaller part — that is even a tiny bit jealous. Ash has her life all figured out, while I'm still whipping up non-fat soy lattes for douchebag assholes all day.

I take another long swig from my bottle. I just have to keep that small part of myself drowned in an ocean of booze.

"Thanks." She reaches out and squeezes my arm. That's when I notice the fresh ink on her forearm.

"New tat?"

She glances at her arm and smiles. "Yeah." She traces her finger around the image of a compass with its arrow pointing north. "Lane did it. He has a matching one. Since neither one of us believes in tattooing names, we decided to get compasses. So we can always find our way back home to each other."

I take another gulp of my cider to distract myself from the urge to vomit across the bar. "That's, um, really nice."

She has this dumb, lopsided grin on her face. "Your brother can be really sweet, you know?"

No, I don't. The Lane I grew up with was overprotective, controlling, and had a large stick permanently wedged up his ass. Obviously the Lane she's dating is an alien imposter. But, as long as he continues to stay out of my life, the body-snatcher version of my brother can stay. "New rule," I say, salting a coaster so my bottle won't stick, "no more guy talk during girls' night."

"Oh." She ducks her head. "You're absolutely right. I'm sorry, I —"

I wave a hand in the air, cutting her off. "Forget it. How about we talk about your outfit instead? Because, seriously. You're wearing sweatpants in a bar."

"Yoga pants," she argues.

"There's a difference?"

"Yeah. Yoga pants are more refined. They're the classy sweatpants."

I can't help it. I laugh. Which is strange because, even as the giggle bubbles up my throat, sadness squeezes my chest. I miss Ash. I miss the jokes. I miss venting about asshole customers with her. Ever since she quit working at the coffeehouse, we no longer have nights spent talking and stuffing our face with stale cake pops when we should be closing the shop.

Ash laughs, too, and together we giggle until we're red in the face and heaving for breath. She takes another sip of her whiskey between gasps. "I'm sorry I was late. I was up all last night studying, and then I had to pick Harper up from school early because she's sick, so I spent the entire day taking care of her. Lane would have done it, but he's overbooked this week. That's why I didn't have time to change."

My breath catches. "Is Harper okay?"

She sighs. "Lane thinks it's strep. He was getting her ready to go to Urgent Care right before I left."

A thread of worry weaves through my ribs. I hate thinking about my seriously adorable niece suffering. "Because of your selfless act of taking care of my Harper, the fashion police hereby dismiss all charges against you."

She grins. "Well, thank God. I wasn't sure how I was going to afford an attorney." Her phone buzzes with a text. She picks it up. Her brow furrows as she reads. "Oh no."

I set my bottle down. "What's wrong?"

She chews on her bottom lip before answering. "It's Harper. It turns out Lane was right. She has strep. He took her home and asked if I could pick up her antibiotics from the pharmacy."

"You have to go." I fight to keep my disappointment from showing on my face. Part of being a motherfucking adult is understanding sick kids always take precedence over girls' night. So I do my best to ignore the jealousy ripping through my gut, as well as the urge to cry, That's not fair!

"Promise me you'll give Harper an extra kiss from Aunt Em?" I ask.

"I promise." Ash hurriedly tucks her phone into her purse and slides off the barstool. "I'm so sorry. I was really looking forward to finally hanging out."

Me, too. Instead of saying so, I wave a hand dismissively. "I get it. I totally understand. We'll just have to try again some other time."

"Yes," she says, inching backward through the crowd. "Really soon."

"Really soon," I repeat, but I don't think she can hear me. Her back's already turned and she's halfway to the door. With a sigh I turn back to my drink and pick at the label. What a sucky turn of events.

Ren wanders over to me with a frown. "Where'd Ash go?"

"Harper's sick," I say, ripping off ribbons of soggy label.

Ren reaches for Ash's whiskey, but I swat her fingers away. "Leave it."

Ren scowls, placing a hand on her hip. "Don't be like that. You still have me. And a whole bar full of potential."

I look up. She has a point. There's no sense in letting the entire night go to waste. After all, the only thing waiting for me at home is half a bottle of flat wine and a DVR full of reality television.

God, why does my life sound so pathetic?

I shake my head to clear my thoughts as I swivel my stool around to survey the crowd. "All right, then. Let's assess our options, shall we?" Even though Ren's bar, The Wishing Well, is nothing but a hole in the wall, she hosts some of the country's best indie bands. This means the crowd is an eclectic mix of college hipsters, rockers, dropouts, music lovers, and the usual drunks. I have options.

I nod toward a muscular guy sitting on a stool in the corner of the room. "He has possibilities."

"Nope." Ren shakes her head. "Girlfriend." No sooner does she say the word when a thin brunette in a barely-there skirt perches herself on his lap.

"Meh." I wave my hand. "There's more where he came from."

"What about him? He's hot." Ren points her finger to a clean-shaven blond guy bent over a pool table.

I consider him for a moment. Sure, he's got a nice ass, but there's not an inch of ink or a piercing on him. In other words, boring. "I don't do J.Crew models." I wrinkle my nose. "I swear, Ren. It's like you don't know me at all."

She snorts. "Oh, I know you plenty, honey. You always go for the biggest player in the place. It wouldn't hurt to mix it up for once."

I narrow my eyes. "I totally resent that. I don't go for the biggest player in the place ... I am the biggest player in the place."

Ren laughs. "That's my girl." A guy shouts at her from down the bar. She groans and wipes her hands on her apron. "Listen, the natives are getting restless, but I'll be back. In the meantime, I believe what you're looking for is right there." She points to the back of the room.

I follow her finger to a lean guy in a tank top carrying a bass drum onto the stage. Tattoos decorate both of his arms and line his chest. His hair is cropped short on the sides and his ears are pierced with thick black plugs. "A drummer!" I can barely contain the squeal in my voice as I clasp my hands together. "It's not even my birthday!"

Ren rolls her eyes as she slides away. "Do I know you or do I know you? Still, you might want to try something new. Give J. Crew a chance."

I make a face and wave her suggestion away. "I like what I like."

She arches an eyebrow. "Yeah? And what is it about these men you find so appealing? Their loose morals?"

"Close. My ideal man must have the uncanny ability to disappear in the morning." I snap my fingers to illustrate my point.

Ren hands a guy a shot glass of tequila and wipes her fingers off on the towel tucked into her apron. "I don't know, babe. Sometimes it's nice when they stick around."

I snort and turn my attention back to the man-candy on stage. "I spent my entire life under the watchful gaze of my older brother. Now that I'm finally free, the last thing I want is another man tying me down. At least not before I —" I can't finish the sentence, because I'm not sure how. Before I visit the castles in Scotland again? Drink at the taverns in Ireland for the third time? Skydive for the fifth time? Get a real job? Before I figure out what it is I want to do with my life?

And now that I'm thinking about it, what do I want? "I'm still young," I answer myself out loud. "The point is this little birdie is going to stretch her wings before she gets thrown back into a cage."

Grinning, Ren grabs two shot glasses off the rack and fills them with Fireball. Taking a glass in her hand, she slides the other to me. "To freedom."

I pick the glass up and clink it against hers. "To freedom."

Ren goes back to taking orders, and I settle into my seat. The whiskey warms the pit of my stomach and fills my head with a delicious haze. I lean against the bar as the day's tension slowly unwinds from my shoulders. Work was a bitch today. It was bad enough the people wanting lattes was never ending, but top that with a fifteen-minute lecture from some granola mom on the poisonous properties of cow's milk and it was truly the day from hell.

I glance at the drummer bent over his kit as he adjusts the mic stand in front of the bass drum. His jeans are so tight very little is left to the imagination. Maybe he can feel the heat of my gaze searing into his backside, or maybe fate is finally on my side. Either way, he looks behind him and meets my eyes.

He winks.

I can't help but smile as I trace the sticky rim of the shot glass. At least now things are looking up.

Reece

The words on the page blur to inky pools, and I know I just don't have it in me to read one more essay on the Industrial Revolution and its effects on modern commerce. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my hands down my face.

"Rough night?"

Startled, I jerk back, blinking my eyes to find Tonya, an eleventh grade geometry teacher, standing in the doorway of my classroom. I always thought she was cute, but today she crossed the line into sexy, with her pencil skirt, black-rimmed glasses, and hair pulled back in a bun. For the millionth time I consider asking her out. She's exactly my type — nice, pretty, educated. My parents would love her.

Maybe that's what stops me from asking.

Or maybe it's the bullet hanging from the chain around my neck.

Either way, the words knot inside my throat until I have no choice but to swallow them down. "Yeah." I lean back in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Industrial Revolution essays. Twenty of them."

"Oof." Her face scrunches in a sympathetic pout — it's adorable. "That'll do it."

I nod, gathering the papers in a stack then stuffing them into my leather messenger bag. "I wanted to be done by now — looks like I'm going to have to DVR the game."

She leans her head against the doorframe. "Cards versus Cubs?"

I zip my bag shut and look at her. "You're a baseball fan?"

She grins. "Don't tell on me, but I'm a Cardinals fan. Big time."

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Excerpted from Seared on my Soul by Cole Gibsen, Liz Pelletier. Copyright © 2016 Cole Gibsen. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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