Running in Place (Mending Hearts) Page 2

  It’s not my best song, but it sure makes me smile on the inside.

  Looking around the bar, I take notice that the happy hour clientele has thinned quite a bit.

  “Fine, but don’t let it happen again.” An ecstatic grin breaks across her face while she claps and jumps up and down on the balls of her feet. Shaking my head, I remind her, “I’m serious, Sadie. Not. Again. And you’re pulling expo Friday night. Laura can’t and I need someone to fill in. Okay?” Scooping up some ice, I toss it into the glass I just set down on the bar.

  Her smile grows exponentially and she shakes her head. “Okay, Noah. Thank you!”

  “No problem. So…” I drawl, “what happened with Tatum?” Grabbing four liquor bottles, two in each hand, I turn them upside down, dispensing the liquid into the glass. After a quick three count, I set them back in their allotted spaces and quickly snatch the sweet and sour, throwing Mrs. Harris another wink in the process. Five more shades of red pass quickly over her cheeks and that chest she’s so proud of before I turn back to face Sadie.

  “Well, like I said, she was ditched again. So, she’s on her way up here to have a few drinks until I get off. Then, who knows. We’ll probably go dancing and announce to the world our immense hatred for all men who walk the Earth. You know, the usual.” She laughs, and I watch Ryder saunter up right behind her, swaying her hips seductively. Setting her tray down in front of Sadie, she glares in her direction, obviously trying to mark her territory. Sadie takes one look at her with widened eyes and then laughs right in her face before Ryder redirects her glare at me.

  I choke my own laughter back. It really is ridiculous.

  Finishing off the Texas Tea with a splash of coke, I set the glass on top of the tray in front of Sadie.

  “Hey! That’s my tray, Noah,” Ryder whines.

  “Not anymore.” Finishing off the bottle of Chardonnay directly into the wine glass I’d pulled down from the rack earlier, I set it beside the Texas Tea. The sides of my mouth quirk into a slight smile as Sadie picks the tray up and places it on her shoulder, eyes on Ryder the entire time. After a five second show down, Sadie turns and walks away without so much as one word to Ryder — who’s now seething and shooting daggers at me with her green eyes.

  I chuckle to myself because, to be quite honest, I don’t give a shit.

  This is exactly why I shouldn’t screw chicks at work. They get all territorial and bitchy. It’s annoying. And extremely unattractive.

  Exhaling deeply, I fight the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can I help you, Ryder? Is there something you actually need? Or did you just come over here to cause problems for the other wait-staff?”

  “What?” she asks, clearly appalled that I would make such an accusation. “I came over here to tell you that Sadie’s changing shifts without even asking you, Noah. I was trying to do you a favor.”

  “Well, I don’t really need you to do me any favors, do I?” Tossing the empty wine bottle into the trashcan, I watch Ryder exaggeratedly flinch as it lands right on top, breaking the beer bottles underneath it with a loud crash. “Not that it’s any of your business, but she did, in fact, clear her schedule change with me. So, instead of worrying so much about what Sadie’s doing, why don’t you start worrying about all the empty glasses sitting on the tables in your section?”

  Lips forming a tight line, she lets out a frustrated growl and then, without a word, she turns and storms off towards her tables.

  Pivoting back towards Mrs. Harris, I laugh at her flabbergasted expression. “Sorry ‘bout that. Women. You can’t live with ’em. You can’t live without ’em.”

  She smiles as I assume my earlier inappropriate position and lean into her personal space.

  “That’s not a woman, Noah. That’s a brat!” She dips her head, peering at me over the rim of her glasses as she whispers, “Please tell me you are not involved with that girl. You know what they say about dippin’ your pen in company ink. It’s never a good situation.”

  I chuckle under my breath. “So true, Mrs. Harris. So true. Unfortunately for me though, that ink’s my ride home tonight.”

  “Noah!” she admonishes. “You’re so bad!” She playfully slaps my hand. I grab a handful of peanuts and throw them into my mouth.

  “You have no idea, Mrs. Harris.” One wink and another blush pattern later, I leave her with a freshly made Cosmopolitan to go make nice with Ryder. I really do need a ride home tonight. And I’m not getting it from Mrs. Harris. No matter how many times she offers.

  Even I know that’s not a good idea.

  On my way to the wait-station to work my magic, Trace pokes his head out of the kitchen from across the bar, gesturing for me to meet him there. Nodding back, I head toward him as he disappears from the doorway.

  My mind stirs with the memory of the last real conversation Trace and I had in his office.

  Tatum.

  I understand Tatum and Trace having issues. He basically forced her into employment here so he can keep somewhat of an eye on her, but the closer he attempts to get to her, the more belligerent of a response she has regarding any interaction with him. So, it’s obvious to me why he asked me to watch over her. I can bend my mind around all of that.

  What I don’t get is why I said yes.

  It would be easy, I guess, to say I felt obligated to do it since he’s my boss. But, deep down I know that’s not the reason.

  Honestly, I think it’s because I’m intrigued. She intrigues me. Absolutely nothing about her makes sense.

  For example, she’s beautiful, stunning even — crystal clear blue eyes, long black hair, perfect pouty mouth, full lips. Gorgeous. She could have any man she wants. But she’s living with Cash? This makes absolutely no sense to me. Cash is the epitome of loser. If you were to look up the word “loser” in the dictionary, his fucking picture would be next to it. Dumb as a brick. Redneck country boy — gapped teeth and all. Why the hell is she with him? This, I would like to know.

  Also, another thing that definitely does not make sense was her decision to quit school right before she was set to graduate. Why do that? Is it because she’s afraid? And if so, what’s she so scared of? Success? Failure? Growing up? What drives that kind of fear?

  But most of all, I want to make sense of her unhappiness. She hides it well from others, I’ll give her that. But I see it every time she looks at me. Her eyes betray the sorrow that consumes her. What caused this pain? Why does she hold on to it?

  I want to why. I have to know why.

  So far, though, she’s given me nothing to go on. Pretty much all she’s given me is a helluva lot of attitude mixed with some cold shoulder. In all honesty, we really shouldn’t even be scheduled together because every single time we work the same shift we end up arguing about some stupid shit. I can’t say one thing to her without her losing her temper.

  Typically, this would irk me. I am, however, grateful for this because I seem to need a constant reminder to try to maintain my distance from her. I have to. I can’t afford to let myself get close to her, and the constant bickering between us is a healthy reminder of why. I don’t have time for bullshit.

  That being said though, it is my goal to figure her out before I leave. And I will. I just have to make more of an effort to stay far away from her while I do it. Far, far away. Far away is better for everyone involved.

  After rapping my fist on the door frame of the office, I wait for Trace to gesture for me to enter. His blue eyes dart up from his desk, and I’m momentarily struck by how much he and his sister resemble each other. Same light blue eyes and same black hair, although his is short and shaggy. Twelve years her senior, they look identical, with the exception of age.

  After shutting the door behind me, I take a sit in the leather seat in front of the desk.

  “So, Trace, what’s up?” I ask, watching him shuffle some papers to the side.

  He shoots me a narrowed stare before answering. “Harvard, huh? When were you planning on telling me?” Ri
sing out of his seat, he crosses to the front of the desk and leans back against it, positioning himself right in front of me.

  I’m so not ready to have this conversation.

  “Who told you?” I stall.

  “Ryder just mentioned it in passing. I can’t say that I’m surprised, but I thought I would hear it from you first.”

  Fucking Ryder. I used my acceptance into Harvard as a way to get her to understand that fuck buddies were all we’d ever be. Three months until I leave for Boston. The last thing I need is some clingy, heartbroken girl sobbing when I do leave. So, I just nipped it right then and basically told her where we stood from the beginning. If she’s okay with that, then who am I to judge? Not me.

  As Trace peers back at me, I shift in my seat. The napkin in my back pocket suddenly feels as if it’s burning a hole through my pants in protest. I guess by not telling Trace, maybe I was hoping some miracle would present itself in which I would be able to live my life instead of my father’s.

  A grin crosses his face as he leans forward and claps me on the shoulder with his hand. “I’m proud of you, Noah. That’s quite an accomplishment. I don’t know how you did it, working here while juggling your pre-med courses, but you did, and you graduated with honors.” He shakes his head. “If only Tatum could be half as disciplined as you,” he adds with a snicker.

  Blood rushes to my face, and I break into a nervous sweat. I generally don’t do well with compliments. I’m just not used to them. I don’t get them often, and when I do they make me uncomfortable. I shift awkwardly again in my seat.

  “Thanks, Trace. It’s really not a big deal. It was pretty much predestined for me to attend before I was even born. My father would have made it happen regardless. Alumni and all…”

  Trace gives me a thoughtful look but backs off the subject. “Baylor let out and it’s the beginning of summer, so, I assume you started working again with Blake at the new duplexes. I know he had you scheduled to start working with his crew as soon as your classes let out.”

  “Yes, sir, I am. Just painting for now. He offered to show me more later in the summer, but I think he’s breaking me in first. So, painting it is.” I let out a nervous laugh. I’m definitely not comfortable being a novice either. Typically, it’s a requirement for me to master everything I do with my first attempt, but I’m enjoying taking the time to learn something new and not being reprimanded if it does take time. Plus, it beats being a go-fer for Blake like I was last summer.

  Trace dips his head in agreement. “You’ll need the days off then, am I correct?”

  “Yes, sir. I get off around five, so I can work closing shifts from now on,” I offer.

  “Perfect.” He pushes off the desk. “Well, the main reason I called you in here is to let you know that I’ll need to start training someone to take over your managerial role here at the bar, so the sooner you can get me an estimated last day of employment the better. Yes?”

  Nodding as I stand from the seat, I extend my hand. “Will do, Trace. Give me a little time to figure everything out and I’ll let you know as soon as I do,” I say, giving him a firm shake, completely aware that this is something I should have already figured out by now.

  He gives me another contemplative look before adding, “And, be careful. Relationships in the business place can be tricky. Make sure nothing affects your working relationship with Ryder while you finish out here. That’s the only thing I ask.”

  “Not a problem,” I respond.

  Trace drops my hand. “Good. I have enough going on without worrying about unnecessary drama. I trust you’ll leave anything with her…copacetic?”

  Laughing at his word choice because I know he would only use it with me, I answer, “Of course, Trace. I’ve got it.” I turn to leave the office, knowing I’ll definitely need to step it up in my attempt to “make nice” with Ryder.

  As I exit the doorway, I say a silent prayer for my future Academy Award winning performance of the evening and hope it works.

  Less drama is always good.

  I need a drink.

  Watching Noah coupled in the corner of the wait station with Ryder makes me gag, literally. My eyes follow his every movement as he tucks a perfectly curled blonde strand of hair behind her ear and leans his body into hers just before whispering some kind of dirty little secret, judging by the nails-on-a-chalkboard giggle that escapes her. But, when she trails her fingers along the side of his jaw and then passes them through his dark brown hair that is, of course, styled to perfection — it’s almost too much. I can feel the acid scorching as it climbs the back of my throat.

  Shots can totally help this.

  That’s the only acceptable throat scorching that should be happening right now.

  I need, like, twelve of them.

  Tearing my gaze away from them in the direction of the bar, I thank the stars for their perfect alignment and watch as Daniel pours a glass of wine, obviously the second bartender for the evening. At least there’s one good thing about them being cuddled up in the corner — Noah’s definitely not behind the bar right now. Making my way over, I take a seat next to the older woman sportin’ some crazy just out there cleavage. I’ve seen her here before, flirting shamelessly with the bartenders, mainly Noah.

  Sure, she’s attractive, but I kind of feel sorry for her. She’s obviously lonely, judging by the amount of skin she’s displaying on the bar top and to everyone else in the bar.

  “Hi,” I say in a huff as I sit down and throw my purse on top the bar. “I’m Tatum. Come here often?” I laugh as I direct my eyes towards her.

  She gives me a slow once-over and then smiles genuinely before relaxing in her chair.

  “Yes, I do, young lady. I’ve seen you in here before. You’re Trace’s sister, are you not?”

  I signal to Daniel without answering. “Three shots of Patron.” He gives me a questioning look, and I jerk my head to my new best friend for the next hour or so. “One’s for her.”

  Redirecting my attention toward my new BFF, I extend my hand. “Tatum O’Connell. And yes, Trace is my brother. I work here part-time.”

  “Helen Harris. Nice to officially meet you, Tatum,” she responds with a warm smile.

  I sigh inwardly at her pleasantry. See, this is exactly why I shouldn’t pass judgment on people I don’t know. It’s not like me and, well it’s judgmental, which I can’t stand. Really, who the hell cares if her boobs are on display? Not my place to judge. Display the shit out of those puppies if you’ve got ’em.

  Three shot glasses slide in front of us, the clear liquid sloshing just inside the rim. “Better hurry, Noah’s heading back over.” Daniel wipes his hands on the bar towel draped across the top of his shoulder. “Have fun,” he adds with a playful grin before bolting back onto the floor, passing Noah along the way. I turn quickly before making eye contact with Mr. Perfect and slip Ms. Harris her shot. Once in her hand, I grab the remaining two and slam them both one after another, not even bothering to wait for her. Rude, I know, but time is of the essence here.

  The acid previously burning in the back of my throat is replaced with the familiar, warming sensation of tequila and I happily welcome it. Taking the lime off of one of the glasses, I bite down and my face puckers as I chase the shot with its bitter juice. After expertly tossing the peel back into the empty shot glass, I’m greeted with a deep voice laced with definite judgment. “Tatum.”

  I smile at Ms. Harris before responding, partly in thanks, mostly in apology. I have a feeling I know where this conversation is headed and it’s not going to be pretty. I’m not in the mood.

  Placing my hands on the bar, I swivel the top of the stool away from my drinking buddy to face Noah. His deep brown eyes are drawn as he focuses on me intently. After a brief moment, they break from mine, glancing down at the two shot glasses in front of me, before rising again. This results in tight lips and more thinning of the eyes. Lovely.

  “Noah.” My voice is just as sharp and direct as his. He does
this every single time I come in here for a few drinks. I’m not really sure what his problem is, but I’m definitely going to take care of any potential criticism.

  Cocking my head to the side, I raise my eyebrows expectantly. “Did you need something? Or are you just going to stare at me all night, taking inventory of the number of empty shot glasses in front of me? Because if you want to keep watching, I’m sure there will be more soon. But first, I would like a beer — if that’s all right by you.”

  An audible intake of air occurs next to me, but I keep my eyes directed at him. He wants to play this game, that’s fine.

  After what seems like forever, the unyielding glares between the two of us are finally broken. “Yes, Noah,” Ms. Harris interjects. “Could you get us another drink? I’ll take my usual. Tatum?”

  A victorious grin slowly slips across my face, one that widens when I see the corners of his mouth dip in defeat. “Well, thank you Ms. Harris. Thank you very much.” Noah opens his mouth to say something, but obviously decides against it as his lips seal shut and he wheels around to grab our drinks. I turn back towards Helen, smile still intact.

  “Seriously, thank you. I’ve had a hell of a night, and honestly, I don’t have the patience for him right now. I’m sorry about that, by the way. I’m normally not so testy,” I lie.

  Noah and I typically have some sort of standoff anytime we’re forced to deal with each other. Whether it be my excessive intake of alcohol, like tonight, or the fact that my shorts are two inches shorter than regulation length while working, like last night, we pretty much argue all the time. I don’t know why he constantly seems to have a stick up his ass, nor do I understand why I’m repeatedly reprimanded for shit that doesn’t even concern him. Well, I guess the shorts kind of fall under his jurisdiction. Okay, maybe the alcohol too, but I seem to be the only person in this whole establishment unable to escape his managerial power-trip. Sadie’s shorts were way shorter than mine the other night and he didn’t say a damn thing.