Page 28 of Pretty Heartache

I may have only spent a few short hours with Micah, but it’s hard for me to see him in the same light as his upbringing. Then again, I’ve always believed Micah was different.

Micah’s heavy footfalls land on the stairs. When he comes into view again, his white shirt is stained with streaks of black and brown, and dust coats the length of his arms down to his strong fingers. He jogs down the stairs and heads straight for the kitchen without looking up.

The sound of rushing water fills the quiet.

I watch him from where I’m standing. His T-shirt stretches across his toned, corded back. My mouth waters, and I swallow, his voice suddenly in my ear calling me a ‘good girl’.

Damn Ember and her unfiltered mouth.

“I should go,” Ember blurts out. She grabs her purse from the sofa and hooks it over her shoulder. “I have a client consultation booked for this evening, and another one next week. Would you want to come?”

“I don’t know.” My stomach twists as I shake my head. “I’m not sure I’m up for it.”

“I’ll text you the details and if you want to meet next week, I’d love to introduce you to my client,” Ember adds. “She’s a smaller influencer, but she’s a model, too. Maybe she could connect you with photographers on the East Coast whenever you want to get back to work.”

I twist my fingers. “Thinking about work right now is overwhelming. If I allow myself to think about it, my heart breaks.”

We usually go out for drinks afterward. If you don’t feel up for the makeup session, you can always join us after. There’s this place not far down from the studio a few of us makeup artists like to go. Very lowkey and relaxed. It’ll be fun.”

There’s a mirror located on the far wall of the living room. I’ve yet to bring myself to look at it or any other one in this house. I avoid them like the plague, afraid of what I’ll discover in my reflection. Not in my appearance, but of the person I’ve become. Thrusting myself back into the modeling world this soon is the furthest thing from my mind and would only shine a light on my truth.

“I’ll think about it.” I give her a small smile, unsure if I should take her up on her offer. The thought of going out with my best friend is tempting. It feels like something I should do, but I’m afraid of being thrown back into the modeling world. Although Ember landed on the other side of it—the technical, cosmetic side—we exist in the same orbit.

Thankfully, it isn’t for another week, buying me time to decide.

My best friend wraps her arms around me one more time. I rest my chin on her shoulder, looking behind her. My eyes catch the mirror for a moment before I quickly snap them shut. I still have a week to decide, but for now, I think I’ll gladly stay wrapped in the bubble of Micah’s old house.

NINE

“Two beers!” my best friend yells to the bartender, holding up two fingers.

She nods without uttering a word and digs two bottles from the cooler in front of her, pops the tops, and sets them on the small, square napkins in front of us.

Archer tosses her a twenty before turning around and leaning against the counter. He takes a sip of his beer but keeps his attention focused on the two couples playing pool on the other side of the bar.

“You know, I never learned how to play,” he mutters, with his mouth against the edge of his bottle as he swings his gaze to mine, but I avoid it, taking another swig of beer.

I’m annoyed. Archer hasn’t been in town for months and I don’t know why he insisted on meeting here of all places. Every single time he’s in town, we end up meeting at these shithole dive bars. It reminds me of Harley’s Club, but this one is impossibly worse, called Traver’s Back Hole, or some shit like that.

As soon as I stepped inside, I quickly understood why Archer picked it, aside from its name. Like Harley’s Club, Traver’s is dimly lit, with only a handful of unassuming customers. Plasterpeels from the walls, and nearly all its neon signs are either turned off or broken. Old country music plays from a jukebox in the corner, and the smell of stale beer fills the air. Stains dot the carpet underneath two tilted pool tables.

This bar looks like garbage, and Archer sticks out like a flashing red light. His designer black suit, chrome watch, and the chain draped around his neck are dead giveaways he doesn’t belong in a place like this.

I shove the sleeves of my forest green crewneck sweater up the length of my arms, thankful I don’t look as strikingly out of place as Archer does. Still, my association with him doesn’t help.

“Soren should be here any minute,” Archer mutters against his beer in a hushed voice, as if the cracked-out couple practically fucking against the wall in the back corner of the bar can hear him from this distance.

“I’m getting fucking nervous, man.” He blows out an anxiety-fueled rush of air and twists to place his bottle on the counter. “Soren is my largest supplier. I’ve been a little behind on getting his cut of the profits to him.”

Instinct has my muscles tensing and my palms sweating. I hate that I’m even here, but if there’s one thing I’m guilty of, it’s supporting my best friend even when he’s found himself in deep waters. Waters he often drowns in.

This time, I’m hoping I have enough strength to help keep his headabovewater.

Archer’s green eyes dart to the metal door of the bar just as a customer steps in. I hold my breath, waiting to see if this is the man we’re waiting on. Soren McGovern is well known in the drug trade. While keeping his profile relatively low, he and Archer have been in business for years, maintaining their relationship that has been watered down to one of convenience and money.

Soren provides a supply of prescription drugs. Archer sells them in exchange for extra profits.

I have yet to meet Soren in person. My heart hammers in my chest, knowing this is most likely more dangerous than Archer is perceiving it to be. He’s visibly nervous, but he’s downplayed his relationship with Soren for years.

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