A Slippery Slope Read online

  “The beast has a heart?” I’m still a little pissed that my stepmom gave Abigail a key to get in here. When my dad and stepmom had upgraded from their condo to a five-bedroom home with a guesthouse last year, I was the first one to point out the ridiculousness of two people living in four thousand square feet. With my dad’s photographs and Gayle’s antique rugs, the main house feels like people actually live there, but the guesthouse feels like a hotel. It’s all very tastefully decorated but kind of sterile, filled with real designer knickknacks that inspired the Target knockoffs I had in my Boston apartment. I’m not complaining now that I’m the sole occupant of the bungalow out back, but I wish that my parents were more judicious about handing out keys.

  “The beast wants you out of her guesthouse,” Abigail corrects. “So up and at ’em.”

  “But I’m in a loving and supportive relationship with my pillow.” I wrap my arms around the closest pillow I can find, which isn’t hard given that I have a choice of three throw pillows within arm’s length, and another four at the far end of the couch. The sheer number of throw pillows perched just so on every surface of the house reads like a mission statement: your body will rest comfortably no matter how uncomfortable the rest of your life may be. “I don’t need to be rescued.”

  Abigail sighs. “Yes, you do. I know you don’t believe in fairy-tale crap about princes rescuing fair maidens, but I’m not a prince and you’re not a fair maiden, so let’s meet in the middle, okay?”

  “Mmf.”

  She reaches for my shoulder and squeezes gently. “I know this is extra hard for you. Breakups suck for anyone, but when you have…” Her voice drifts off and she shrugs so I fill in the blanks in my mind.

  When you have anxiety. I’ve only ever been wired this way, my nerves constantly on alert like I could be under attack at any minute. But I don’t want it to be an excuse. Feeling things is also what turned me into a writer, what gave me an outlet I love. Anyway, everyone has anxiety every now and then. I just have it more often than most.

  My throat gets thick. “Everything that’s not sleeping makes me feel like I’m going to have a panic attack,” I admit quietly.

  Abby nods and her look of sympathy almost makes my tears come for real. “Would you get up for coffee?” And there it is, my kryptonite. People say wine cures a lot of ills, but it’s coffee that’s never failed me. Spilled wine is the sneaky bitch that got me into this mess. Or, technically, it’s the sneaky bitch that exposed my life as the sham it really was.

  Abigail’s weight shifts off the couch, and a few minutes later the rallying smell of coffee fills the air. Brazilian and Colombian medium roast, specifically, with undercurrents of milk chocolate and fig—because while I will not be drowning my sorrows in Cabernet, I have stocked the pantry in my parents’ guesthouse with top-shelf beans. A bracing cup of espresso is good for the soul.

  “Here,” Abigail says a few minutes later. When I sit up, she presses a steaming mug into my hands.

  I take a sip and give her a tiny smile over the edge of my cup. “Thank you.” Seeing my best friend in real time instead of on FaceTime is the one unexpected perk of having had to haul my rejected ass back to Swan’s Hollow.

  “You’re welcome. Now here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get in the shower because you smell like ass, and while you do that I’m going to attempt to straighten up this place because I am the best friend ever. And when we’re finished, we’re going to eat some food and then we’re going to get a nice stiff drink.”

  “As stiff as that dick you showed me?”

  Abigail doubles over as she laughs. “Ladies and gentlemen, the smelly woman has a pulse and a sense of humor.”

  I ease my body off the couch and grimace at her. Abigail just bats her eyes at me, the picture of innocence.

  I pause, turning in the doorway of the bathroom to face her. “You know I really, really don’t want to go out tonight.”

  Abigail throws a pillow in my direction. “Just get in the shower.”

  I huff out a sigh and go.

  Chapter 3

  God, Abby, no.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare out the car window at the open sign casting erratic red light onto the sidewalk. No matter how open it is, I have zero interest in setting foot in the bar in front of us.

  “Do you have anything to drink at your place?” I open my mouth to reply and Abigail cuts me off. “I mean, with alcohol?” I close my mouth and shake my head. “Well, then, here we are.”

  “But really…Hooligans?” I stare skeptically at the bar, a tiny carved-out nook wedged between the dry cleaner and the laundromat. A sign posted by the front door claims tonight’s specials are tortilla soup and a “Splashin’ Passion” for five dollars, whatever that means. Even when I was in high school this place had a sketchy reputation—rumor had it that Bernadette Myers from my homeroom lost her virginity in the bathroom to a guy twice her age just to prove that she could. I don’t need to have actually been inside to know this is not where I want to be tonight. “We couldn’t have just gone to the liquor store?”

  Abby unclicks her seatbelt and tilts her head against the headrest to look at me. “Come on, Nat. I got a sitter for Nico and everything. How often do we get to do this?”

  The answer is never—I never get to go out with my best friend, given that we normally live an hour apart, and she, as a single mom, almost never gets to go out herself. Certainly I haven’t forgotten about her five-year-old, Nico—the plastic dinosaurs lodged in the footwell of Abby’s car are reminder enough—but until she slid into her pleading voice, I hadn’t recognized that maybe tonight’s rescue mission is a little escape for both of us.

  “Fine,” I grumble. “But I have a negative bank account. Can my boobs buy the drinks for us?”

  Her face splits into a smile. “That’s the spirit. And I don’t care how you pay for them.”

  The truth is, Abigail’s rack is way nicer than mine. She’s all pinup-girl curves and tan skin. Catalog-model hair, tumbling and dark. Her boobs are the reason AJ Peterson couldn’t keep his hands off of her and she wound up pregnant the summer after senior year of high school. As much as I love being Nico’s godmother, being his actual mother hasn’t been an easy path for Abby. I’ll keep my B cups, thank you very much.

  A low pulse of music leaks out under Hooligans’ heavy oak door and I hesitate, my palms sweating, pretty sure I’m having an out-of-body experience. I haven’t been back to my hometown in over four years, and grown-up Natalie is suddenly teenage Natalie, shifting awkwardly on the sidewalk. I can’t quite feel my feet.

  “I shouldn’t be here at all,” I tell Abigail, my heart racing. “What are people going to say?”

  “First of all, fuck ’em.” She speaks with the practiced air of someone who’s spent years developing a thick skin. She’s had to be tough—in this town, single teen moms don’t exactly get citizenship awards from the mayor—and I wish I felt a fraction of her confidence. “Second of all, you look gorgeous, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  I doubt it. I’d kept my face makeup free in protest but now that I hear the low throb of music from inside, I’m second-guessing my choice. As much as I don’t want to care about what people think of me, I can’t help the prickle of awareness that races down my spine. I don’t know what’s worse—showing up as I am, defeated, or showing up and masking my misery with mascara and blush. Either way, it’s too late to change anything. Abby swings open the heavy door, and in we go.

  Hooligans smells like damp carpet and strong liquor, moldy and astringent all at once. To its credit, the bar is bigger on the inside than I’d guessed from the outside. A few pool tables crowd the front of the room and a long counter stretches across the back. There’s a sombrero tacked above the bar, along with the requisite neon beer signs that I suspect aren’t just vintage-looking as much as they are actually vintage. A bowl of peanuts sits out like an afterthought.

  And there at the bar is a familiar face. It�
��s a strong, handsome face with a slightly crooked nose and sharp green eyes. A head of perfectly-mused, just-fucked looking hair. A cocky-ass smile.

  Jackson Wirth. Shit.

  “This is a bad idea.” I wheel around, my heart racing. I have no chill and I don’t even care.

  Abby looks over my shoulder. “What’s the problem?” When she sees Jackson, her face shifts slightly. “Oh. You’re not freaking out over him, are you?”

  “No,” I lie. “It’s because of the crowd.”

  It’s because he’s someone I silently used to love.

  “Consider everyone source material for characters in your next book,” Abby suggests, adjusting her bra so her boobs squish up. “And he can be the big bad wolf who devours the heroine’s heart.”

  Abigail knows enough of what happened with me and Jackson to know why I’m squirming, but I haven’t filled her in on all of the details of that night. I don’t bother to correct her now.

  “Let’s stay for at least one drink,” she says. “I promise I won’t let him bite.”

  The problem is, maybe I want him to.

  “Fine,” I relent. “But I’m sending you up to buy the drinks.”

  Abigail rolls her eyes and pulls me to a tiny table in the corner of the room. I open my wallet to hand over some money but instead of finding the ten dollar bill I remember having, I find it depressingly empty.

  “Shit.”

  I swallow hard, only now remembering I spent my last bit of cash on an iced coffee on my drive back from Boston. The drink seemed so necessary at the time—the tiniest balm for the biggest hurt—all cream and sugar and ice. Only now it seems stupid to have spent the money on an overpriced drink. How could I have known when I’d need it next?

  “Um, about my boobs buying it for you…?” I could pay with a credit card, only I’d have to sign the receipt and then I might as well walk up to Jackson myself.

  Abby waves in the air. “I’ve got it, babe.” Her generosity makes me squirm. It’s not like Abby has the money to spare, either. She’s got a kid to feed, for chrissakes.

  I watch her head to the bar, the neon signs casting a red glow on her skin. Jackson’s head snaps up when she approaches and he scans the room, ignoring the cluster of girls hanging on the bar waiting for him. He’s looking for something. Or someone. When his eyes finally find mine, everything in the room slides to a stop like we’re in a goddamn movie. The heat of Jackson’s gaze makes my cheeks go too warm, makes me remember every long night we spent together. Even from here I know he has flecks of gold in his eyes and long, dark lashes.

  Jackson looks even better than he did when I left town all those years ago, and I can feel my heartbeat speed up, my stomach bottom out. What a stupid, traitorous body.

  I drop my eyes, breaking the staring contest.

  Oh god, this isn’t going to work. I can’t be here in this room with him. My body can’t keep wanting him the way it did for all those years.

  I bolt for the bathroom before Abigail gets back from the bar. What I need is a few big lungfuls of fresh air. What I need is an open road between here and Boston. What I get is a smelly restroom with a cigarette butt floating in the toilet. As they say, beggars can’t be choosers.

  I’m not proud of it, but I hide, wondering idly if this very stall is the one where Bernadette allegedly traded in her V-card. I huddle in the cramped, dark room just long enough to pee and splash water on my face and let my hair out of its topknot. Fixing my hair is stupid for a number of reasons, not the least of which is I’m not here to impress anyone, not in that way. I can’t get my heart broken twice in a month. And heartbreak’s all Jackson Wirth is good for.

  He is, after all, the guy who slept with three girls who lived on the same floor in his dorm in one week. I know because he told me as he was “walking me home” one night. It’s what we did, those first weeks of college. If I stayed out late at a party, he’d tell me to call him on the way to my dorm, to make sure I got back safe.

  When he told me about his dorm-room antics, I could picture the matter-of-fact shrug rolling off his shoulders, that casual, shit-eating grin of his.

  Those poor girls, I thought. The side-eye going on in the ladies’ room must have been epic. Because I knew, even then, what it was like to have the full force of his charm turned on you, then suddenly off. I had seen it happen to all the girls in our high school he had dated and left.

  Not me, I’d sworn to myself, and nosed back quietly into my books. Until that one stupid night I hadn’t.

  I should have known better then. And I know better now. But I can’t help the way my heart rate refuses to return to normal. I frown at myself in the mirror and dry my hands.

  Here goes nothing.

  I swing open the bathroom door and almost hit Jackson, who’s standing just on the other side of the hall. Part of me is secretly thrilled he came to find me, but I’m going to bury that part so deep you’d need an excavator to retrieve it.

  “Shit. Sorry,” I say. Jackson has a silver scar under his left eyebrow, and when I see it now, I remember the night he got it. Unfortunately, all it does is add to his appeal. His broad shoulders and trim waist don’t hurt either, the way his body screams that it can serve up way more pleasure than just a cocktail.

  “You’re back.” Jackson steps close until he’s up in my personal space, as if he thinks there shouldn’t be any distance between us. God, did he always smell this good?

  “Surprise.” I wrap my arms around myself and think of Matthew’s tongue down his secretary’s throat. Surprise. But I’m not bitter or anything.

  “It’s good to see you, Natalie.” Jackson’s voice is a question, his mouth a fraction shy of a smile. “It’s been too long.”

  “Yeah, well, see you around,” I say, then push past him.

  “Why are you running away from me?” Jackson demands when I’m halfway down the hall.

  “I’m not,” I tell him without looking back.

  But one hundred percent, I am.

  Chapter 4

  You hanging in there? Abby’s text comes through at seven a.m., which normally wouldn’t be a problem but which, after last night, seems ungodly early. Everything hurts. My temples throb with a low-grade headache and even my fingers seem stiff and swollen.

  Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck? I write. No way the single cranberry vodka I had last night could have wreaked this much havoc on my nerve endings.

  You wanted a stiff drink, she replies, and I can picture a wry grin on her face.

  She’s wrong, though. There’s not nearly enough alcohol in my bloodstream to make me feel this pressure behind my eyes. It’s probably the weight of all these memories making my head pound, the unexpected consequences of seeing Jackson Wirth.

  It was stupid of me to think I wouldn’t run into him now that I’m back in Swan’s Hollow. To my knowledge he returned home after his dad died. It was me who skipped town and never looked back. I just hadn’t expected to see Jackson my first night emerging from my self-imposed exile.

  Oh god. The memory of last night swims back to me in full, painful detail—Jackson’s familiar eyes, the way he looked older and sexier in all the right ways. Running away was the best defense I had, because before that, the last time I saw Jackson I had kissed him. It’s been four years but the feeling of being unwanted hasn’t faded yet. I’d shown him everything and he’d turned me down. I hate to admit it, but it makes me feel embarrassed and awkward, even now.

  It’s completely Jackson’s style, after all, to show up when I’m trying my hardest to fly under the radar. It’s part of what’s so infuriating about him. The first time I saw him was the week before tenth grade started, the tail end of a long summer marked by my parents’ slow, messy divorce. My summer was filled with frosty silences and passive-aggressive notes my parents left each other on the fridge—in which they negotiated stupid things like who got to keep the Edith Crosta painting (Dad), and who needed to clear shit out of the house (Mom)—but occasion
ally the tension boiled over into bigger fights.

  On those nights I’d sneak out to my old tree house and hide with a book and a flashlight and a thermos of hot chocolate, getting lost in the tart, bright smell of the crabapple tree’s leaves. The night I met Jackson I was so distracted by the noises inside my house that I didn’t notice him until I was practically on top of him.

  “Holy fuck,” I yelped, brandishing my flashlight and thermos. I’m not sure what I planned to do to the stranger in front of me if he was dangerous. Maybe blind him and pour hot liquid on his skin?

  “Hey, sorry,” he said, and then the beam of my flashlight actually hit his face and I could see him better. Strong cheekbones and rumpled hair. Even with the harsh shadows cast by the flashlight, I could tell he was cute. Still.

  “What are you doing here?” I hissed. I kept my feet on the ladder in case I needed to run.

  “I’m your neighbor. Fresh in from Los Angeles, California.” It still didn’t explain why he was on private property in the middle of the night, uninvited.

  “You scared the shit out of me. Jesus.”

  He grinned. “Actually, you can call me Jackson. Jesus is a little formal for me.”

  He reached out his hand and I stood there for a minute, debating. Finally I set down my flashlight so when I shook his hand I didn’t blind him, after all. His skin felt warm and rough against my palm.

  Behind me, something crashed and I cringed. Jackson didn’t comment. He leaned back against the boards of the little house, making himself at home. “Well, are you coming in?”

  “I guess so,” I said, and hauled myself all the way in. It seemed like the right place to be.

  We stayed there most of the night, together, me with my eyes straying over the edges of my copy of Watership Down to drink him in, Jackson listening to his headphones, tapping the floor every now and then so the vibrations ran through me. He stayed with me until the shouting inside my house stopped, and then a little longer.