Sway Read online

  “Yummy. That guy is hot,” she says. “The one standing over at the—don’t look now, Kate! At least wait for me to give you the signal.”

  But I don’t. I whip my head around before I can stop it, a compass pointing in a direction that may or may not lead toward a wrong turn. He leans against the bar a few yards away, one foot crossed over another, close enough to make my staring obvious. Low slung jeans encircle his hips, held in place by a studded leather belt. A chain hangs from it, disappearing mysteriously inside his left pocket as though it might connect to knife, a gun, a wallet…depending on how on-the-edge the guy lives. Everything about his image screams danger. Good danger. The kind of danger that might make a good girl like me consider sharing her blanket tonight. A tight black t-shirt defines the most amazing muscles, easy to see, despite the pale blue button-up shirt hanging loosely at his sides. A hint of a tattoo peeks out at his collarbone, black and gray and feathering upward. And his hair…his perfect chestnut hair. It’s messy in the best imaginable way, the way I’ve seen in magazines, in hit movies, on Abercrombie billboards hovering over the middle of Times Square.

  I’ve been to Times Square only once.

  But I’ve never forgotten the billboards.

  Still, there’s something about the guy that unnerves me. It isn’t the outfit. Or the image—because he’s beautiful. He doesn’t seem menacing or threatening, despite the rough exterior. In fact, if the guy standing next to him is any indication, he seems almost…normal.

  Open.

  Too open.

  He’s been staring at me the whole time.

  I raise one side of my mouth in half-hearted acknowledgement and turn back to Lucy, wishing for a glass of water to quench my suddenly dry throat. As if conjured up by pixie dust, a waitress appears and begins dispensing glasses. One for me, one for Lucy, one for Ashley, and one for Iris, whose chairs still sit empty. I give a once-over to the room and spot them next to the stage. Here barely ten minutes, and they’ve already found dates. Leaving me and Lucy alone at a table with four cups of water, two empty chairs, one giant headache, and a hot guy still staring at me. I chance a tiny glance at him just to be sure.

  I’m right. Happy Birthday to me.

  3

  Caleb

  “If I Never See Your Face Again”

  —Maroon 5

  As a kid, I spent hours dreaming about what I would be when I grew up, childish dreams that involved jumping off buildings or driving fast cars or moving to the speed of sound while wearing only a Speedo and a cape. After I saw the movie Rocky, I dreamed of being a boxer, of taking down all my enemies with a hard jab of my fist and a clean swipe to the legs.

  On my first day of elementary school, the kid next to me punched me in the nose for breaking his pencil. That day, I discovered that getting hit hurts.

  I also discovered that even if you don’t instigate a fight, you still might be labeled a troublemaker. And once that label sticks, it takes years to peel it off.

  More often than not, it’s too much trouble to try.

  In the ten minutes she’s been here, I’ve already changed my mind about the blonde. My first I’m Not Buying It impression was totally inaccurate. The girl is innocent. Quite possibly naive. In my twenty-four years of living—eleven of which would make even the most compassionate nun question my ability to be redeemed—I’ve discovered that usually the two are one and the same.

  Sure enough, as I’m sizing her up, Trouble in a dark red shirt walks up behind her and rakes over her legs, zeroing in a little too long on her barely-there skirt. I watch with a mix of fascination and disgust. Fascination, because the guy is so dang confident. Disgust, because even though he carries a beer and wobbles sideways, I’ve been here long enough to know he hasn’t had a drink all night.

  Falsely inebriated and cocky, an often lethal combination. I, of all people, know this.

  I’m contemplating intercepting this little exchange until the guy gets stopped by a genuinely drunk buddy who shouts something about needing another drink and “why the heck aren’t you out here dancing with us, Man?” Except the friend doesn’t say heck. He doesn’t say hell either. Use your imagination.

  The girl in the puffy pink coat still doesn’t notice the two guys behind her, just sips her water and swings a toned leg back and forth to the music. The sound is generally unpleasant, verging on outrageous. A couple of the band members need to take more lessons or stop playing altogether, particularly the guitarist who wouldn’t know rhythm if it pounded a beat straight into his brain. I’m surprised the girl likes it. Then again, I’ve been surprised by a lot lately.

  The guy starts moving again just as Scott bumps me from the side.

  “Caleb, we have a problem,” he says in his overly excited, anxious way. This would worry me, except this is how Scott talks all the time. High pitched and nervous, as though something is chasing him, as though he is one breath away from an anxiety attack. I’ve seen him have one once—when the stock market took a dive last year and took most of his penny-stock earnings with it. Twelve hundred dollars, but you might have thought it was twelve million. He didn’t stop wringing his hands for a solid week. Didn’t stop talking about it for another two. When it comes to Scott, he’s more fifty-year-old man than twenty-two year old computer genius slash financial planner.

  Still, he keeps the books for us at work, and makes sure everything follows the letter of the law. That’s why I like him—he’s straight and narrow in all the places I’m twisted and mangled.

  “What is it?” I ask him.

  The hand-wringing commences. “Well, it seems Kimball took the whole ‘coming to the bar and mingling with the locals’ thing a bit too seriously, and…”

  “And…?” My stomach plummets, as though it knows Scott’s next words before my ears do.

  “He’s drunk. And not just a little.”

  I take a few steps away from the bar, thinking about the trouble I’m going to be in tomorrow. Sure, every one of these men is of age, every one of them is old enough to make their own decisions and live with the consequences, but I’m in charge. It’s my butt on the line if something goes wrong.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the men’s room, hugging the toilet.”

  “How did he get drunk?”

  “I believe he consumed too much alcohol.” Most people would say Scott deadpanned the words, but the guy wouldn’t know a joke if it fell on his tongue.

  I roll my eyes. Chick thing to do or not, it’s the only appropriate response. “I get that he drank too much, but why? I specifically remember telling you guys not to order anything.”

  “I know, but it seems that someone bet him in a game of pool…”

  For the love of Mary and Joseph—gambling and drinking. I’ll be lucky if I have a job left tomorrow. I push through the bathroom door and catch sight of a moaning Kimball, lying in a puddle of his own vomit while Matt works to clean the mess up. He’s going about it all wrong and making everything worse, but I say nothing. Bending down, I meet Kimball at eye level.

  “What part of ‘don’t drink anything’ did you not understand?” Sympathy, I’ve discovered, is something I’m fresh out of.

  I’m greeted with an even louder moan and a lunge for the toilet. Knowing he’s about three inches off the mark, I take the back of his head and pull it forward, trying to be gentle. But if I hurt him a little, I really don’t feel bad about it. Kimball purges, this time landing on the target. The smell of puke hovers in the air like a cloud of sulfur. It might make me sick if I wasn’t so used to it.

  “Feeling better?” I say as Kimball leans back, eyeing me like a puppy in trouble. I feel like whacking his nose with a newspaper.

  “A little.” His lips are green around the edges.

  “Good enough to stand up? We need to get you home.”

  He nods and tries to lift himself up, but falls back down in a heap. I sigh and grab him under his armpits, lifting at the waist. The only thing worse than a sev
erely drunk guy is a severely drunk guy who’s never been drunk before. Kimball is completely out of his element. This hangover might last for days.

  “Was it worth it?” I ask, a little louder than necessary, but I figure it’s my job to drive the pain home. Maybe he’ll think twice next time.

  “No. Not at all.” He shakes his head before seeming to think the better of it, and groans. “My head hurts so bad. I need a Tylenol.”

  “You need about three of them. But first you need coffee. A big cup. The blacker, the better.” Scott opens the door and we leave the bathroom. Jordon’s nowhere around and I’m annoyed, but then I spot him across the room and see the reason why. He’s chatting up a cute redhead near the dance floor who looks very much into him. Too bad his good time is up.

  “Jordon! Get over here.” I don’t even try to hide my irritation.

  His head snaps around, his complexion quickly matching the redhead’s hair. He doesn’t look happy, but he listens to me. “What’s wrong?” he says as he walks up. At least he has the decency to look chagrined.

  I square my jaw and swallow about a dozen foul words just itching to make an appearance. “I need you to bring your car around. Kimball went and got himself drunk, and we’re going to sober him up before anyone finds out. Think you can peel yourself away from the entertainment and take care of that for me?” My words have a sharp bite and covey a whole lot of implication, but I can’t help it. What started out as a way to help other people has turned into a disaster.

  I royally screwed up. And now, thanks to this, I’m royally screwed.

  He fishes his keys out of his pocket. “Sure thing. Give me a couple of minutes.” Jordon sprints toward the door, Matt and Scott following behind him. I’m left alone with the slurring, drunk guy. Lucky me.

  Kimball’s knees grow weaker by the second, and consequently he grows heavier. Kicking a chair out with my foot, I lower him into it, taking care to stand in place so he can lean on me, knowing that if I move, he’ll drop to the floor. His head will pound uncontrollably tomorrow. He doesn’t need a bash to the skull from the hard concrete floor to add to the pain.

  While Kimball snores below me, I scan the room. The bar has grown more crowded; apparently its faithful clientele doesn’t arrive until midnight. It doesn’t take me long to spot the blonde, whom I’ve all but forgotten about in the drunken fiasco. Maybe fifteen minutes have passed since I left, but she’s still sitting at the same table. Yet everything else has changed. Her friends are no longer with her, and she’s been joined by the red-shirt guy. The two of them are drinking, flirting across the table. His arm is draped across her back and his left hand caresses her wrist. She slaps it away and takes another drink, laughing hysterically at something he’s said as beer bubbles over the cup and slides down her chin. The laugh is a little too loud, obnoxious in the sheer magnitude of the sound. He dabs at her chin with a napkin and leans in to kiss her. She leans in too, but just before their lips touch, she abruptly stops. After a moment, her face contorts, like she’s experiencing the world’s biggest headache. Or, like she’s confused.

  It’s my first clue that something isn’t right.

  Her eyes close for a moment and her body slumps sideways.

  That’s my second.

  I’ve seen hundreds of drunk people in my life. First-time drunks and long-term drunks, and though nothing about the two are even remotely similar, one thing holds true in both situations, no matter a person’s level of tolerance:

  Headaches…confusion…unawareness…none of them ever start this early.

  The guy whispers something in her ear, but this time she doesn’t crack a smile. He stands up and takes her hands, pulling her out of her chair. She practically lunges toward him and falls into his waiting arms. As he does, a little white pill slips from his pocket and falls to the floor. It skids toward me and I lean down to palm it. Blood rushes between my ears as the old familiar anger sets in.

  And this is my third.

  Feeling something akin to panic rising up to meet the anger, I search the room. There’s no sign of the friends she came with. There’s also no sign of Jordon, and only Matt is left by the window. Scott, with his low tolerance of the sinful nature of bars, has clearly ducked out already.

  My earlier thought comes back with a vengeance. This night was definitely the world’s biggest mistake. Where is everyone?

  My heart rate picks up speed as the front door opens and the guy walks through it, leading the blonde in her short dress behind him, not even bothering to slip that ugly pink coat over her shoulders. From behind them, I can make out the faint drift of a light snowfall. It’s cold. It’s cold and dark and isolated and heading straight toward a bad ending, with her in trouble, alone—and to top it off—sick. I can see it now, like a bad novel I’ve read a dozen times and memorized the ending.

  God, please.

  It’s the only thing I can think. The only thing I can feel. The only thing I can do.

  Until finally Scott walks through the door and makes his way over to me, his head dusted with white, his black coat dripping melted snowflakes onto the concrete floor below him.

  “You ready to go?” he asks.

  But I barely hear his words.

  “Here, take him.” I hand off Kimball and walk away without looking back, knowing time is running out and feeling my gut twist because of it.

  “What am I supposed to do with him?” Scott yells back, sending my already bad mood plummeting even further.

  “Get him in the car! Then figure out the rest!” I swear, sometimes it’s exhausting being in charge of so many people, especially the ones who can’t seem to think for themselves. And though I know Scott is a good guy, and though I know I’m supposed to be here, sometimes I hate it just the same.

  “Hey!” I yell as I burst through the front door. Just as I thought, the guy from the bar is stuffing the girl inside a silver Mazda coupe. Just enough of the door is open to see her dark figure splayed across the front seat, completely passed out. He closes the door and walks around the front of the car, either unaware that I’m talking to him, or in a rush to leave before I catch up. I make it to the trunk. “Hey!” I say again, too close to ignore. This time he has to turn. His eyes are flaming arrows shooting straight through me, but I can take it. I’ve taken worse.

  “What do you want?” He opens the driver’s door and slips one foot inside as though challenging me to stop him.

  So I do.

  “I want you to back away from the car.” I look him straight in the eyes when I say it, so I’m a little surprised when he laughs and slides into the seat.

  Laughs. Sits down and laughs, which are both completely unacceptable. So I do the thing that comes naturally. Automatically. It’s been five years, but as they say about picking up an old, abandoned habit, it’s like riding a bike. I yank him forward by the collar and slam him into the back door, metal crashing against skin in a familiar crunch. His head snaps forward as his eyes burn a hole into my skull. They’re clear, focused. My suspicions were right. He’s stone, cold sober. “I said, back away from the car. Since you didn’t do it the easy way, I’ll give you a little help.”

  I see his fist coming a little too late. It smashes against my jaw, knocking me to the ground. The bone doesn’t break, but it misses a golden opportunity. I think about remaining there when the ground begins to spin, but the sound of the girl’s moan from inside the car brings me back to my feet…feet a lot less steady than they were moments ago. Before I can meet his eye, another blow lands in my gut.

  Which totally ticks me off. A familiar adrenaline rush kicks in and I lunge for him; I haven’t been this mad in years.

  That bike I’m riding once again becomes a pimped-up Harley Davidson as my fist connects with his face, his jaw, his ribs. I punch anything that moves until his body falls to the ground, only vaguely aware of the words “Caleb, stop!” sounding in the background. But for two more blows, I don’t.

  Until the sickening thud of bon
e meeting gravel brings me to my senses.

  Until the arms of Scott and Matt wrap around me and pull me away. Like cold water dumped into a pool of boiling hot rage, my anger fizzles as my eyes meet the writhing form lying on the ground below us. It takes me a minute to figure out what happened…a minute to break through my haze of rage…a minute longer to recall what had me so angry in the first place.

  But then it comes back.

  “Check on the girl,” I say to Matt, touching the back of my hand to my mouth and drawing back a ring of blood. It’s coming from my nose, I think, though my left eye feels kind of wet, too. Glancing at the guy on the ground, I see that he’s fared worse than me. There’s barely a spot of unmarred skin on his blood-stained face. The thought brings me more satisfaction than it should. Especially when guilt quickly follows.

  Dear God, I whisper under my breath, knowing that for a split second, I let anger control me…the very thing I surrendered years ago. I embraced it. Let it take over. And enjoyed every moment of it.

  I hear the car door open and forget about the guy on the ground, then limp my way toward the passenger side. Another moan greets me when I arrive, but the girl only turns and slumps into the console.

  “What happened?” Matt asks, with more than a little concern on his face. He looks at me like he’s seeing a stranger…like the past five years have been erased in an instant. In a way, I guess they have. Most of these guys know me as their leader, their boss. In some ways, a saint.

  They’re only now seeing the guy who’s danced face to face with the devil.

  I nod toward the ground. “He drugged her. I didn’t see the whole thing since I was stuck in the bathroom cleaning up Kimball’s mess.” I glare toward the waiting van where Kimball now sits hunched in the passenger seat. “But I saw enough. He gave her this.” Fishing the pill out of my pocket, I hold it up.

  “What is that?” Matt asks, leaning closer toward my fingers. Scott joins him, a look of confusion lining his eyes. What I wouldn’t give to be that innocent, that sheltered. But life didn’t deal me that same hand. Not even close.