Smoke & Mirrors by Skye Jordan

18

Isabel

My conversation with Natalie keeps replaying in my mind as I wipe down the bar.

The reasons I never considered working for myself are superficial. I was so focused on my ideal—the travel, bright lights, accolades for my work—that I missed other, quieter, and possibly more fulfilling opportunities.

I’m well aware my career failure is probably a well-deserved kick in my ass from karma. But I like the way Natalie made working for myself sound. I never made much money on Etsy because I never posted more than a few things at a time. I was too busy working three jobs to keep my head above water. I looked at my boho designs as an escape from the grind of life, a way to be creative and have fun, because, yeah, I really love designing, and no company hired me to do that.

What if Natalie’s right? What if I don’t have to grind to find happiness? Success, even. Giving up my dream is a big leap—more mental than physical, but still a leap. Across a pond of alligators. But, realistically, it’s no closer or farther away than it was when I was in New York.

I check on the customers at the bar, then make my way around the empty tables, wiping them clean, refilling condiments. I pause to pull my phone from my pocket, checking for a message from Aiden, but there’s nothing.

“What in the hell are you doing?” I mutter to my phone. This is either another controlling tactic, a true disinterest in getting the gun back, or he’s dead.

I pause to consider if hoping for the latter makes me a bad person. In truth, I don’t wish him harm. Okay, maybe just a little. My urge is to call him, to find a way to end this thing, but that’s probably exactly what he wants. Why he’s stopped communicating. Or he figured he’d never get it back and gave up.

No, Aiden never gives up.

Not knowing what’s happening with him makes me crazy. Which is precisely why he’s doing it. I’m beyond over the fucking head games. Only now, out of the situation, around real people, normal people, do I realize how stupid it was of me to take the gun—immature, self-righteous, and short-sighted, not to mention illegal, considering the whole breaking-and-entering thing.

I look up and find firefighters pouring in the back door, both paid and volunteer, and my heart lifts in anticipation of seeing Logan, but my focus veers into confusion when I see Royal with a parrot on his shoulder.

Logan’s the last one in, wearing turnout pants and a navy-blue T-shirt with the Hood River Fire and Rescue logo on the upper left chest, Lucky trailing at his heels.

He scans the bar, spots me, and veers away from the table where the other guys sit to lean on the bar while I fill pitchers with water and soda for the guys.

“Hey.” His eyes are soft, but the rest of him is tense and heavy.

“Hey. Let’s hope no one complains to the health department of animals in your restaurant. What’s with the bird?”

“Long story short, the bird got out, the guy who had her—it’s not clear if he owned it or had taken it in lieu of payment for something—but he was an asshole, and Royal all but challenged the guy to a duel for the bird. All that comes out of her mouth are curses. Very colorful curses. And barking. She and Lucky have only been together a few hours, and she’s already imitating him. The guys have started adding to her nasty vocabulary. All in all, she and Lucky are welcome comedic relief.”

I laugh. “How entertaining.”

“Not everyone think so.” He looks over his shoulder. “See that scowl on Sorenson’s face?”

“He doesn’t find her entertaining,” I say.

“The jury’s still out, but there’s no doubt Dolly took a real shine to Royal. He’s gone from probie to birdman. She talks like a sailor, but treats Royal like her long-lost lover. His pitch is that because I got two cats and now have a dog, it’s only fair he gets a pet too. But I think the deciding factor may be Royal training her to poop in one place. And, of course, not bite anyone. She’s ornery with everyone but Royal. The only reason we still have her with us is because we’ve been running calls since we picked her up and haven’t had time to drop her at the Humane Society.”

Lucky finds his way back behind the bar, and once he spots me, his whole body wags and he jumps, his paws against my shin.

“Don’t get any ideas, buddy,” I tell the puppy. “Just because you weaseled your way into bed with me once doesn’t mean I’m keeping you.”

Logan smirks. “Is that a message for him or for me?”

I smile at him. “Maybe both.”

“Maybe? So then maybe you’ll come to the game Saturday night?”

“What game?”

“Hockey? Remember? It’s a tie-breaker game. We’re coming back here after.”

He leans his forearms on the bar, and his smile finally appears. “I woke up alone, but I have a very vivid memory of going to bed with this sexy, dark-haired, mind-blowing beauty.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Oh, hell yeah. Can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Maybe you and Lucky ought to have a heart-to-heart.”

“Was he stealing the covers?” He looks over the edge of the bar at the puppy, now lying at my feet. “Total bed hog. He looks small, but he takes manspread to a whole different level.” Then he changes the subject. “Hear any more from Cocksucker?”

I shake my head. “He’s got to be the king of head games. As soon as I want to make arrangements to return the damn gun, he goes dark. I’m so over it. Want to take a trip to Portland with me this weekend and browse pawnshops?”

“Excuse me, ma’am, did you just ask me out on a date?”

“I don’t think pawnshop trolling counts as a date.”

“Might we get food or drink while we’re out?”

“We might.”

“Then I believe it’s a date.”

I shrug. “Call it what you like.”

“I might have to seal that offer with a kiss to take it seriously.”

He’s making all the right moves, saying all the right things for me to believe he’s okay, but he’s most certainly not okay.

I place the last pitcher on the tray and cover his hands with mine. “Want to talk about what happened today?”

“Can I get that kiss if I tell you?”

My brows shoot up. “Here? In front of your guys, who include my brother?”

“I talked to Tucker. He and I are good.”

“How nice for you both.”

He turns his hands over and slides his fingers through mine, his expression grim. “We had a fatal domestic call earlier today. It was…really awful.”

Shit. Now it all makes sense—the pain in his eyes, the fatigue in his expression. “Those have got to be extra awful for you.”

“I haven’t been able to shake it.” His gaze lifts to mine and scans my face with an intimacy that brings the night back in full force. “But a kiss would help.”

“Relentless,” I say, then pull my hands away and grab the tray. “Unisex bathroom in three.”

A grin lights up his face. “You’re on.”