Smoke & Mirrors by Skye Jordan

10

Isabel

Ihaven’t been to an ice-skating rink since I was a kid, and this one isn’t at all what I remember.

It’s new, built in just the last couple of years and way nicer than any rink I’ve ever seen. The lobby is well stocked with merchandise, from water and candy to hoodies and scarves. The floor has nice black rubbery mats and bright red lockers for skaters.

Inside the rink, the roof is high, with lots of natural light coming in from skylights, and the metal trusses creating the roof are painted white, the bleachers all around the rink painted gray.

All in all, very clean and modern.

There are about fifty or sixty people here, half dressed in blue, half in red, sitting behind the team benches, clustered behind the team they’re rooting for. It’s clear the blue team supports the cops, the red, firefighters. A skater sweeps toward me and makes a sideways stop just in front of the boards.

“Didn’t think you’d come.” Logan’s face is flushed with color. His already gorgeous green eyes are on fire, and his dark hair clings to his sweaty skin.

Damn him to hell and back, I honestly can’t name one man prettier than him.

“I’m here to see Tucker,” I tell him. “Don’t fall all over yourself.”

He laughs, and it feels good to find someone who gets my sense of humor and takes things lightly. New York was a mecca of uptight, insanely busy, competitive, and downright angry assholes. I’ve only been here a few days, and the stress from everyday life in New York has faded, something I didn’t even know I needed. But there were a lot of things I loved about city life.

“Natalie and Tina are up there.” He lifts his chin toward the benches.

Nice to know there will be friendly faces and I don’t have to look like a pathetic loner, but I got over that a long time ago.

A whistle blows, and Logan looks toward center ice, then back at me. “I don’t suppose I could get a good-luck kiss.”

“Keep dreaming.”

He’s grinning when he pushes off the wall and glides toward center ice, where he joins his teammates in a line, including Tucker, Carter, Cole, and Bobby.

I wander toward the bleachers, passing the collection of blue fans to reach the red fans. My gaze travels lightly over the crowd, holding on a woman who is very deliberately watching me. She’d be pretty if she got rid of the resting bitch face.

Intuition tells me that look has something to do with Logan, but she’s rooting for the cops, not the firefighters, so who knows? Women get wound up by the most asinine things.

Natalie waves at me from halfway up the stands. “Isabel.”

I climb the bleachers in large steps and sit beside her. Her mother and Tina are sitting on the other side. I see a couple of the employees from the Cockloft around me and a whole lot of the volunteers I met at the firehouse and lift my hand to say hello, then lean forward to say hello to Tina and Betsy.

Tina’s holding a toddler. He looks about three, but what do I know about kids? He is also clearly biracial like Tina. And if he is, in fact, Tina’s son, she must have had him extremely young. She barely looks eighteen as it is.

“This your kid?” I ask.

She smiles like a proud mama, and I can see how much she loves him in one glance. “All mine.”

“He’d do well in New York. Those big blue eyes and that mocha skin, they’d eat him up. If you ever want to try him in modeling, I can give you a few reputable agents to contact. Could pay for his college tuition.”

“Really? Interesting. I’ll think about it. Thanks for the offer. Hey, take your jacket off for a second. That shirt is so cute.”

I slide out of my jacket and look down at myself. I’m wearing one of my long-sleeved boho designs with straps crisscrossing in a fun pattern across the chest and back.

“Oh my God, that is cute,” Natalie says. “Did you design that?”

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s mine.”

“I need one,” Tina says, looking at the shirt with stars in her eyes, which makes me laugh. “Like need.”

“I have some with me. I’ll hunt in my stuff and pull one out. Are you a small or extra small?” I ask, sliding back into my jacket.

“Small. Wait, is that a tattoo?”

I look toward my upper left chest near my shoulder. “Yeah, just a small one.”

“Can I see it?”

I slide my arm from the jacket and tug my shirt down to expose most of the tattoo—a quote that got me through some really dark times among flowering vines.

“Wow, that’s beautiful. Did you design it?”

“Yeah. I’ve had it about four years. Looks like I need a color touch-up.” I push my arm into my jacket and pull it tight around me. “Do you have any?”

“No, but I’ve wanted one representing Trevor since he was born. I just haven’t jumped because I’m not sure what design I want and I’d really like to have it on my shoulder, but I’ve seen a few tats on the shoulder that look weird. Guess it’s a tricky area because of the dips and curves.”

“I’d be happy to sketch a few designs for you. I spent an entire year of school haunted by shoulders.”

“That would be amazing. I’ll pay you,” she’s quick to add.

I laugh. Sure, I need money, but there’s no way on earth I’d take it from the women who’ve made me feel so at home here. “What color top do you want? They’re jewel tones—garnet, emerald, sapphire.”

“How much are they?” she asks. My expression must have given away the fact that I wouldn’t charge her because she gets a determined look and says, “I want to pay you for it. I mean, unless it’s like five hundred bucks. That would wipe out my clothing allowance for a year.”

I laugh. “We’ll talk. And I think sapphire would be amazing on you. What about you, Nat? I won’t be offended if you say no.”

“Couldn’t pay me to say no. I’d love an emerald one in small.”

“Good choice.”

Tina claps, excited. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” I scan the rink. “Who’s who down there?”

“Tucker is nine,” Natalie says. “Cole is thirty-five, Bobby is sixteen, and Logan is twenty-two. Don’t try to remember them all, they go on and off the ice so fast, I can’t keep track of any of them.”

“Sounds like good advice.”

“How’s your burn, sweetheart?” Betsy asks me.

I’ve almost forgotten about the singed skin of my forearm where I touched the oven wall while removing muffins this morning.

I look at Betsy and smile with my finger to my lips and whisper, “No one’s supposed to know. If the guys find out, they’ll tease me about it forever. But it’s fine, thanks.”

Betsy laughs. I’m told she has some type of dementia, but I have yet to see her forget anything. Then again, I’ve only been in town a few days.

As the teams fly to the other end of the rink, my gaze moves with them. They don’t look like a bunch of cops and firefighters playing on the ice like kids. They’re good. Really good.

My gaze catches on bitch face again, and I hold her fuck-the-world stare until she looks away, then let my gaze follow the guys down to this end again.

“Looks like you’re on Emily’s radar,” Natalie says.

“Who’s Emily?”

“Logan’s ex.”

“Ah. The looks make sense now.”

“Best just to steer clear of her,” Tina says. “That bitch face is earned.”

“Pffft, she’s cotton candy compared to the women I work with in New York. They tried to eat me alive. Guess I didn’t taste too good. They kept spitting me out.”

That brings laughter from several people I didn’t realize were listening, and I return their smiles when they look over at me.

I lower my voice and ask, “Was it long-term?”

“He says they were just hooking up,” Natalie says. “She says they were a thing. When he tried to call it off, she got nasty.”

I wince, but I’m curious about how that all came about.

“Do you really think that motel will be a moneymaker?” Natalie asks. “For Logan’s sake, I hope so.”

“No doubt about it. He’s renovated that apartment with all quality materials and craftsmanship, and he’s got an eye for design, albeit a bit on the masculine side. That place has real potential.”

Two of the guys collide on the ice and end up on the ground.

I suck air through my teeth. “Ouch.”

Within seconds, they’re both up, pulling at each other’s jerseys and throwing punches.

“Good Lord,” I say. “Do they realize how ridiculous they look? Fighting with puffy gloves. Pussies.”

Natalie laughs. “Tucker doesn’t mind looking ridiculous.”

“Ah, I should have known it would be Tucker causing trouble and looking like a pussy.”

Tina laughs. “That man has a little too much testosterone, if you ask me.”

“Don’t they all?” I ask.

“Thanks for spotting Mike in the kitchen this morning,” Natalie says.

“Not a problem. Happy to help. Just remember, if someone asks about a button in the potato salad that almost choked them, I’m in no way responsible.”

“So that’s where it came from.” An older guy turns from a few rows down, grinning. “I was wondering if it was a Cockloft conspiracy to get rid of me.”

“Nope, just me and my loose buttons. Glad you didn’t choke.”

“Sweetheart, give Mike your recipe,” he says. “I haven’t had potato salad that good since I was a boy.”

“Aw, thank you.” Guess that moonlighting job with a caterer paid off in unexpected ways. When the man faces forward again, I smile at Natalie. “This sure is a friendly place.”

“Small town. We’re like one big dysfunctional family.”

Play continues on the ice, but my gaze blurs. I’m running on fumes. My mind swerves to my most pressing problem: money. To get a fresh start, I’d need first, last, and a deposit for a place to live—no matter where I end up. I’d need a job that could pay the bills. This may not be New York, but it’s also not Mexico. And, hell, who says I want to stay here? I highly doubt there’s any need for my fashion skills here, but I’ve developed all kinds of other proficiencies in all kinds of jobs over the years. A girl has to keep her head above water. Dealing cards, for example. But, again, not a skill transferable to this small town.

“What did you do today?” Natalie asks. “I mean after you worked at the bakery and the bar?”

“Did a little job hunting, tossed out a few résumés.”

“Where?” Tina asks.

“San Francisco and LA.”

“Oh,” she says, part disappointment, part whine. “I was hoping you’d stay closer, like Portland.”

“That’s sweet. I had planned on looking there too.”

“Not going back to New York?” Natalie asks.

To be honest, I hadn’t been one hundred and ten percent sure I wouldn’t go back, but after being here a few days, yeah, I’m sure. “Nope. If I never see New York again, it will be too soon.”

“Score one for us.” Natalie gives Tina a high five.

It’s silly for me to feel so good about the friendship of these people I just met, right?

The thought barely registers when the phone rings in my pocket. Leave it to me to get ahead of myself. How am I supposed to settle anywhere else with this whole Aiden-rifle bullshit hanging over my head?

I pull out my phone with a sigh. Before answering his call, I tap into my bank account. Still overdrawn. I shake my head and send the call to voicemail. One which I will delete later without listening to. There’s only one thing I want to hear from him, and that doesn’t include verbal abuse. So I send him a text instead.

It’s looking like I’m going to have to sell the gun. I really don’t want to, I just want to trade it for the money you owe me, but I’ll do what I have to do. It’s your choice.

I want to walk away from all my failures over the last five years, standing on my own two feet, not begging for a loan from Tucker or Logan or Cole. One I’d struggle to pay back.

“Everything okay?” Natalie asks.

I shove the phone back in my pocket. “Yeah, just an ex who enjoys harassing me. Similar to bitch face over there, I suppose.”

I’m considering the information of her relationship with Logan. About how they were hooking up and that’s all Logan wanted. Now that’s something I could get onboard with—the sextastic Logan 2.0.

I should probably at least pretend to be interested in the game, but it’s about as exciting as football, Ping-Pong, or backgammon. “Where’s his dog?”

“On the bench with the other guys.”

I look that direction but see no sign of the puppy, just another bunch of guys sitting on the bench, cheering on their team. “Isn’t it cold down there?”

“There are rubber mats,” Natalie says, “and he’s wearing a jacket.”

“A what?”

“A doggie jacket,” Natalie says.

“Doggie,” Trevor repeats.

“You know, the coverings made for dogs to keep them warm?”

“They didn’t have those when I was a kid.” Or maybe we were just the kind of white trash who didn’t concern ourselves with something as meaningless as a dog’s comfort. I return my gaze to the bench with a strange desire to actually put my eyes on the puppy. “They’re pretty big. They could squish him if they aren’t paying attention.”

“They may not look like they’re paying attention,” Natalie says, “but I can guarantee you every one of them knows exactly where that dog is. They are all born caretakers.”

Interesting turn of phrase. I wonder if they see themselves as caretakers. More likely, saviors. I wonder if I’m mistaking the zing I feel whenever he’s around. Maybe Logan’s sending out compassionate vibes, not sexual ones.

My mind zips right back to this morning, playing keep-away with Mike’s note. I can easily bring back the big, strong, warm feel of him all along my back from shoulders to ass. Definitely lickable. And damn that scent of his. Just remembering makes me light-headed.

I recognize Royal as he windmills over the half wall separating the bench from the ice and another guy bursts into the game in Royal’s place. Someone picks up the dog from the ground and the guys pass him toward Royal, one by one. They each kiss the pup on his way past.

Natalie smirks at me. “Told ya. Big bunch of softies down there.”

“He’s also become their mascot and good luck charm,” Tina says, “which is why they’re all kissing him.”

“I don’t suppose I could get a good-luck kiss.”

Logan’s words pull back the image of him, grinning, stubble on the hard angle of his jaw. Lips a girl would want all over her body.

“So, have you planned the wedding?” I ask Natalie.

“She’s fussing over a dress,” Betsy says.

“Oh yeah? Moms sometimes hand down their dresses, don’t they? Betsy, do you still have your dress?”

“She wore it in her wedding to Evan and thinks it’s bad luck to wear it when she marries Cole.”

“Not bad luck,” Natalie says, “just…”

“Bad form?” I supply.

“Yes, that.” She sighs. “But I do love that dress.”

“Have you thought about having it altered? Restyled?”

“I asked a couple of places, but it was as expensive as buying a new dress.”

“And she can’t find anything she likes,” Tina says with an eye roll. “Rows and rows and rows and rows of dresses along with a perfect figure to fit them, and she can’t find one she wants.”

“I’d be happy to work on Betsy’s dress,” I tell her, excited by the idea. I miss sewing and drawing and designing. I may only have done it all for myself and my Instagram followers, but it’s fun and creative, and yeah, I miss it. “See if I could come up with something you like.”

“Really?”

The look on her face makes me laugh. “Sure.”

“That’s a lot of work,” she says. “Will you be here that long?”

Good question. “I’m looking ahead one day at a time right now, but I promise I won’t start and leave you stranded. Besides, it’s fun for me. Let’s get together this week, look at the dress, and talk alterations. Because really, Evan wasn’t the only person who got married that day, you did too. So, wearing that dress on your second wedding day could be part you, the changes, part Cole.”

“I like the sound of that. Thank you.”

A buzzer sounds, and everyone in the stands shoots to their feet, screaming, clapping, whistling, and making my heart jump. It isn’t until I stand that I see the people in red are the only ones celebrating.

“What happened?” I raise my voice to be heard over the crowd.

“They won,” Natalie says, grinning. She’s a beautiful strawberry blonde. I remember thinking the same thing when Evan sent me a picture of their wedding I couldn’t afford to attend. I decide right then and there, I won’t miss her wedding to Cole.

As the teams line up to tap gloves in a show of sportsmanship, spectators start emptying the stands.

“Coming to the bar?” Natalie asks.

“What? Why?”

“After-party. Come, it will be fun.”

I’m undecided, pretty worn out from the long day, when I look at the rink and spot Logan’s jersey. He’s holding his helmet in one arm, the puppy in the other. God, he’s ridiculous. Just when I’m about to focus on the bleachers so I don’t tumble down head over ass, Logan looks up into the stands. His gaze focuses right on me, his smile electric.

Yeah. I’m definitely going to the bar.