Page 7 of Under My Skin
“I can’t believe they still haven’t called you,” she mutters before carefully taking a sip. “Have you heard from Simon again?”
My fingers tap against my cup like a nervous tick. “Just a text telling me to let him know when I’m supposed to get in tomorrow.”
Her features relax a little. “Good. At least he’ll be there.”
I can’t say Simon being there gives me much comfort, but I nod. She’s never met Simon. As good of a brother as he is, he hardly gets ruffled by anything. I could hear it in his voice on the phone. He doesn’t care if Mom and Dad get a divorce, but I do.
He always talks about how he wants to do a cross-country motorcycle trip with his friends and visit me along the way, but every time those plans fall through, I breathe a little easier. If he got hurt riding his damn bike all this way, I’d never forgive myself. He might be five years older, but I swear I’m moreworried about him than he is about me. I’ve seen the idiot pop wheelies on six lane highways like he has some type of death wish.
Just the thought has me gripping my cup a little tighter. It’s better that I be the one to visit—even under the shitty circumstances.
Chapter Four
EVERETT
My fingers easeoff the throttle with one hand and squeeze the break with the other before coming to stop behind Simon’s Sportster. He leans against his bike with his arms crossed, waiting. I’ve known Simon for most of my life. His blonde hair and familiar blue eyes have been carved into most of my memories growing up. He was there when I started kindergarten, and he was there when I graduated college. He was there when my parents freaked out about my first tattoo, and he was there when I got what might be my last . . . after my dad passed.
My dad’s handwriting is permanently scrawled on my forearm, woven between the other tattoos covering my skin. Some mean something, others don’t. Some were thought out and planned for, while others I got on a whim. But using my dad’s handwriting from a card he gave me when the shop first opened, gutted me. Seeing the words, “You’ll do great things,” poking out from above the mountaintops I got to represent my hometown, always stops me in my tracks. I haven’t been able to get another tattoo since. That was just over a year ago. I glance down at my arm while I secure the kickstand even though my jacket hides the art inked there. I hope my dad is right. I want to make him proud, even if heisn’t here to see it. Shaking the thought, I take off my helmet and run a hand back and forth over my hair to loosen the strands.
Simon stands upright and heads toward me. “About time you showed up.” A wide grin stretches across his face. He tilts his head playfully when I take too long to answer. “Uh-oh, another home improvement project got you down?”
I wince at the reminder. “Why did you have to bring up the apartment?” Hal and his guys managed to get the water on in time for us to open the studio like he agreed, but this entire project has been one thing after another. I’m sure he’ll uncover something new for me to lose sleep over soon enough.
Simon’s expression shifts into a shitty attempt at feigned innocence. “What’s wrong with asking about the apartment?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t do that.”
He laughs, and it’s contagious enough to pull a smile from me.
“Keep it up, and you’ll be the one paying for Hal’s next discovery.”
He scoffs. “No way. I’ve already paid my dues.” He claps me on the back before putting an arm around my shoulder and walking us toward the front door. “In fact, I’m still paying them.” His arm falls from around my shoulders as he reaches for the door to Boom’s Brewing Company.
“Yeah. Thanks for that.” He’s right. Without his help, doing this renovation would feel ten times more like a juggling act than it already does. My options were to either get help from him or temporarily move in with my mother.
My mother has enough to worry about.
Inside, the taproom is full of life. There’s food being run from the kitchen, staff behind the bar are making sure they have the perfect glass for the different craft beers on tap, and a live band is playing “Up Around the Bend” by CCR.
Simon and I grab a high-top table near the front window, and a girl with light brown, wavy hair walks up to greet us with a widesmile. “Hey! Do you guys know what you might like, or do you need a minute?”
“What are your dark beers?” Simon asks as his eyes briefly wash over the paper menu in front of him.
The girl taps her pen against the small pad in her hand. “Hmm . . . we have two.” Using her pen, she points to one name on the menu in front of him. “This is our dark chocolate raspberry stout.” She moves her pen to another name on the bottom left corner of the page. “And this is our signature coffee oatmeal imperial with a hint of vanilla.”
Simon grins. “I’ll take that one.”
Both sets of eyes wander to me, and I realize I should have figured out my order sooner. Glancing down at the paper list in front of me, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’ll take the hazy IPA.”
“Sounds good. I’ll have those right out for you.” The girl’s smile warms before she spins on her heels with more energy in one finger than I feel in my entire body.
Looking back at Simon, I’m met with a curious expression. “Since when do you drink IPAs?”
Never. I never drink IPAs, but my dad did, and for whatever reason, I’m in a funk today. “I can’t try something new?”
“You can . . .” His words are casual, but his eyes still linger on me with a hint of suspicion before I can practically see the lightbulb glowing beneath the surface.
“Wait a minute. Did you panic because you like her?”
