Page 3 of For Eva

The red light on the cordless phone blinked from the alcove by the door to the patio, beckoning me to it. I trudged over and picked up the receiver, punching the button for voicemail, wondering why I even bothered to still have a landline.

Beep.“Hey, Eva, this is Haley. Haven’t seen you in a while and was wondering if you wanted to make an appointment for a color and—”

I fingered the two inches of dark roots on the top of my head and grimaced as I pressed the button to skip to the next message.

Beep.“Hi there, this is Carolyn Jenkins, the room mom for Mrs. Stark’s class. I was hoping you might be able to help us out with—”

Another skip. I’d figure out what Carolyn needed me to bake later.

Beep.“Hi, this is Simon Rogers withRolling Stone, and I’m trying to reach Eva Mitchell—formerly Eva Holloway. We’re doing a profile piece on Eric Stratton for an upcoming issue, and I understand you worked with his former band, Counting Backward. Eric mentioned you as someone who could possibly provide a bit of commentary on what, um,happenedduring that time. I’m also wondering if you might still be in touch with Danny Kincaid. He’s proven quite difficult to get a hold of. Anyway, I’d love to chat with you at your earliest convenience. Please give me call me at—”

The phone slid out of my hand and crashed to the floor before I could hear the number. Not that it mattered. I wasn’t going to call him back. Icouldn’t. A rush of prickly heat shot through my body, setting my chest and face on fire. My neckthrobbed with my racing pulse, and I grabbed the edge of the counter to steady myself.

“Mom? Are you all right?” Drew’s voice came from behind me.

I nodded and mumbled something about accidentally dropping the phone, hoping he would disappear back into the living room. I couldn’t turn around. I didn’t want him to see me so shaken by something that had nothing to do with him or Miles or the life I’d decided to build nineteen years ago.

That was allbefore.

It was in the past.

Or at least it had been.

TWO

Eva

January 1988

“Holy shit, that’s strong.” Denise stuck her tongue out and shook her head full of long dark curls.

“So strong we probably shouldn’t do another one.” My mouth curved into a grin as I slid the next round of tequila shots closer to us.

“Obviously. We wouldn’t want to get drunk or anything,” she quipped, her ruby lips mirroring mine. “But since we did one to celebrate the start of your LA vacay, we have to do another to celebrate the new job back in Chicago.” She nodded toward my glass and picked up her own. “Welcome to the world of corporate bullshit, Eva Holloway. We’re so glad you could join us.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” I emptied the contents with a quick toss of my head, scrunching my nose as the hard liquor attacked my taste buds.

We hadn’t bothered to ask for salt and limes, settling instead on a couple of beers for chasers. The bartenders at the Rainbow already had their hands full slinging drinks to the wannabe rock stars flirting with the girls waiting to be noticed by the bona fideones. The bar area was standing room only, but we’d managed to wedge ourselves between several occupied stools at the counter.

“You’re so right about the corporate bullshit. I mean, working for a big advertising agency? Making a bunch of rich assholes even richer? I could’ve at least tried to find something meaningful. I’m a sellout, Denise.” I sighed dramatically and dropped my head into my hands, my hair falling around my face.

She rested her hand on my shoulder. “Yeah, so correct me if I’m wrong, babe, but I thought the goal was to make more money than you did at the bar serving shit-faced frat boys bottles of Bud while they stared at your tits?”

“The goal was to make my dad shut up about me being a year and a half out of college and not having a ‘real job,’” I explained, lifting my head. “Having shit-faced frat boys stare at your tits is actually quite lucrative.”

“True.” Denise tipped her beer bottle toward me before taking a sip. “And let’s be honest. You may be serving up marketing strategies instead of cheap beer, but at the end of the day, every man in the room is just a former frat boy thinking about sticking his di—”

“Well,I’venever been a frat boy, but I definitely still think about stickingmydi—”

Without taking her eyes off me, she raised her hand and covered the mouth of the lanky figure who’d materialized beside us.

“What?” he asked, the muzzle she’d slapped on him garbling his voice.

“Wait, why don’t I get to find out where he thinks about sticking his…whatever we’re talking about.” I shifted my gaze back to Denise, trying to contain my laughter.

She inhaled deeply through her nose and rolled her eyes before removing her hand from the guy’s mouth. “Because I’d prefer not to relive the details of my poor decisions,” she saiddryly, though the tiniest smile caused the corner of her mouth to twitch.

The guy scoffed and slid his arm around Denise, pulling all five foot one of her—five foot five if you counted her spiked heels—into him. “You mean the poor decisions you’ve made, like, seven times?” He raised his chin in a thoughtful pose. “Or is it eight?”

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