Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Inside, the pub is crowded but not bursting. Most of the commotion surrounds the bar and dartboards toward the front of the room. We bypass them to the tables arranged in front of the tiny vacant platform just large enough to squeeze in a drum set, mics, amps, and a couple monitors.
Lee leads us to a table with two young women already seated. A pale willowy blond with a severe pixie cut sets down her martini when he walks up. She’s wearing a satiny dress with a deep vee neckline and a ton of funky silver jewelry. She lifts her large seafoam eyes to mine, and I’m already feeling small and underdressed.
Beside her, a taller girl stands to kiss Lee on both cheeks. This one wears a tight ribbed tee and leather pants that encase her endless legs. She’s gorgeous. Like easily the most attractive person I’ve ever seen in real life.
The similarities between her and Lee are impossible to miss. They have the same mouth. Same dark eyes and high cheekbones. They’re not identical, but you’d know these two were related from across the room.
“My twin, Celeste,” Lee says by way of an introduction. “Cece, this is Abbey.”
“Ah. The American.”
I get that a lot lately. “One and the same,” I answer shyly. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise. This is Yvonne.” Celeste nods toward the elegant blond, then gives me the up and down.
While she examines me, I wonder if Lee’s assistance earlier helped or hindered. Both Yvonne and Celeste are dressed far more glamorously and sexier than anything I would have come up with. I suddenly feel like a little kid.
As Jack and Jamie run off to the bar, Yvonne rises to greet me with double air-kisses. I zig when I should zag and we end up in this awful dance trying to get out of each other’s way. She ends up kissing my ear, then my nose, and we are both worse for the entire exchange. At this point, I’d prefer to leave the country and never come back.
Her eyes flicker with amusement. “Right. That certainly was awkward.”
At least she has a sense of humor about it. “Very discouraging,” I agree. “Doesn’t bode well for the rest of the night.”
That gets me an airy laugh. “Oh hush, darling. It’s going to be a smashing night.”
“What are you drinking?” Lee asks me.
“White wine?” I hadn’t given much thought to what my drink would be now that I’m legal on this side of the Atlantic. This seems the safest choice.
“Pace yourself,” Yvonne mocks. “Wouldn’t want to risk having a good time.”
So it’s going to be like that.
Yvonne asks for another espresso martini and Celeste orders a pint. Armed with our drink orders, Lee leaves me under the unshielded scrutiny of the two women.
“You’re probably not much of a drinker, right?” Celeste guesses. “You’re not legal in America.”
“True. But I also think it’s sort of a PTSD,” I find myself confessing. “I can’t tolerate the smell of beer and liquor. Makes me sick. I was around too much of it when I was a kid.”
“Why’s that?” Celeste asks. “Parents alcoholics?”
Subtle. She certainly shares a brashness with her brother.
I shake my head. “No, not like that. But my dad was kind of a partier back in the day. Came with the territory.”
I’m not sure why I keep talking. I don’t actually want to have this conversation. But something about Celeste’s penetrating stare creates a persuasive cocktail that pulls the words from my lips, and I lose control of my better instincts. A terminal case of wanting to be liked by everyone.
Celeste narrows her eyes. “What territory’s that?”
“No, I mean…” Shit. I don’t know what I mean. I walked myself into this corner, and now I’m struggling to find my way out. “Like his job…” Seriously, Abbey?
“His job,” Celeste repeats. “What does that mean?”
I could dip and dodge all night, but she isn’t going to let this go. The intent in her eyes tells me she’s got a whiff. And now, if purely for sport, she’s getting this bone.
I let out a quick breath and capitulate. “He was a musician.”
One perfect eyebrow arches. “What, like, would I know him?”
I hate this part.
“Gunner Bly.”
Her mouth falls open. Yvonne cocks her head. I know exactly how it goes from here. This is usually the moment they start gushing. Telling me my dad’s hot. Which, no, gross.
Then they’ll go on about their prom song or graduation song or breakup song or that time they lost their virginity in the Dairy Queen parking lot. Why people think I want to know these things is beyond me.
And then, inevitably, one of them is a budding music producer. Their cousin is a singer. Their boyfriend has a band. Everyone wants something that I have zero power to give, and I become a prop, a means to an end. Whatever relationship we had or could’ve had devolves into a quid pro quo. Doesn’t make it easy to have friends.