Inception (The Marked Book 1) (5 page)

I stepped away cautiously as the tinted passenger-side window rolled down. His oceanic eyes were the first thing I saw.

5. THE GOOD SON

“Need a ride?” asked Trace, leaning over the passenger seat.

That was the last thing I needed from him. “No thanks,” I said icily and continued walking.

He released some pressure from the brake and let the car move forward slowly, following alongside me.

“Come on, it’s late,” he pushed. “It’s not safe out here.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Please, just get in the car.”

“I said no thanks!” My voice was laced with the frosty bite of a cold December night.

“Fine. Suit yourself.”

I walked another dozen or so steps and waited for him to drive away, but he didn’t. When I looked back at him, he was still leaning over the driver seat with his forearm relaxed over the steering wheel—watching me.

“What are you doing?”

“Driving.”

“I mean, why are you still here?”

His dimples pinched, though he wasn’t smiling. “I’m seeing you home.”

“Okay…could you not?” I said, making a face. “I’d prefer not to get run over by your girlfriend when she happens to drive by and see us.” And with my luck, no doubt that scene will be unfolding any minute now.

“So get in the car then,” he said impatiently, looking at his watch. “She’ll be walking out of there any second.”

I looked over my shoulder for any signs of Nikki, and then back up to the building where Dominic had been, but he was already gone. Again. The street suddenly seemed a little colder, and darker, without his luminary presence.

Apparently, I was out of options.

“Alright, fine,” I said as I stopped and faced him. His foot came down on the break in perfect sync. “But only because I have no idea where I am, and the thought of running into Nikki again makes me want to dry heave.”

He nodded, his dimples pressing in as he leaned over to the passenger side and pushed open the door for me. I looked over my shoulder one more time to make sure there weren’t any witnesses, and against my better judgment, climbed in.

“See, that wasn’t so hard was it?”

I rolled my eyes as I grabbed the seat-belt and tried to pull it across my chest. The stupid thing locked with every tug.

“Let me get it for you,” he offered.

“I can do it,” I insisted, pulling at it harder.

He waited a whole three seconds before pulling my hand away. I flopped back into my seat as he slinked his right arm around my headrest and then leaned in over me with his other arm. The smell of his cologne—a sort of spicy, woodsy scent that made my stomach pinch—wrapped itself around me like an intoxicating embrace.

I pushed back in my seat, fighting off the sudden urge to do something embarrassing, like lean in and inhale him.

Or worse.

He pulled the seat-belt out easily, and brought it down across my body in one sweeping motion. “There,” he said upon hearing the
click
.

“I didn’t need your help.”

“Clearly.” His face was still lingering just inches from mine, his gripping blue eyes grazing over the edges of my face—studying me.

“You probably have it rigged so you can like put the moves on girls or something,” I said, feeling flustered.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“As if I even—” My retort quickly died in the back of my throat as his eyes dropped down to my lips and settled there, making my breath hitch.

Damn, he was close.

Too. Close
.

Apparently he thought so too, evidenced by his clenched jaw and hasty return to his own seat. Within seconds, he threw the car in gear and then barreled off down the darkened street, the engine droning as he pushed down harder on the pedal.

I turned my attention outside the passenger window and worked on steadying my breathing.

“Sorry about what happened back there,” he said after a few beats of silence. His eyes mapped my body as though he were looking for battle wounds. “Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, totally. Best night of my life.”

I had somehow managed to acquire an enemy
and
an assault, all in one night—without even trying. One could only imagine what I might accomplish if I put forth the effort.

On the plus side, at least she only assaulted me with liquids and not her fist.

“I tried to tell you,” he said complacently.

“Tell me what?” I glared at him. “That your crazy girlfriend was about to attack me out of nowhere for standing beside you? No. I don’t think you tried to tell me
that
.”

“I guess not.” It sounded as though he were smiling through the words, but I kept my eyes fixed outside my window out of fear that I might sock him if I caught him laughing.

“Anyway, she’s my
ex
,” he corrected. His tone was so low I wasn’t even sure he believed it himself. “We’re not together.”

“Did anyone tell
her
that?”

He didn’t look at me when he answered, “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure it is,” I grumbled, patting down my whiskey stained jeans, certain that I didn’t want to be a part of it.

There was no doubt in my mind that there was unfinished business between the two of them. That much I knew. What I didn’t know was how I factored into it. Why had she felt so threatened by something as trivial as a conversation between two people? Surely I wasn’t the first girl to speak to her boyfriend (ex or otherwise). Did she go around assaulting everyone who spoke to him or was that just for my benefit?

Something felt off about it.

And now he was driving me home, which probably wasn’t going to go over very well with the ice queen. I could only imagine the various shades of horror on Nikki’s face if she got wind of this. He was taking a major risk by giving me a ride. I couldn’t help but wonder—

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” he asked without looking.

“After everything that happened tonight, why did you follow me out and offer to drive me home?”

He hesitated to answer as though he were asking himself the same exact question. “I’m not going to just let you walk home by yourself,” he said finally, almost annoyed by it. “You don’t even know where you are.”

Fair enough
. “But what’s it to you?”

“It’s nothing
to
me,” he said icily, his eyes flicking to me as he shifted gears. “I just like having a clear conscience.”

“And driving me home accomplishes that for you?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“Because…?” I said, pushing for him to elaborate.

He sighed loudly as though I were grating on his patience. “Because you’d get home in one piece and after what happened tonight, I figure it’s the least I could do, okay?”

Oh, swell
. He felt guilty for what happened at the bar with Nikki so this was his redemption ride (or pity ride), though I refused to entertain the latter thought.

I turned back to the window. “Whatever helps you sleep.”

After a few minutes of silence, he turned to me with a strange look in his eyes and said, “You really should try to stay away from all that.”

“All of what? All Saints?”

“All Saints, Nikki and them. All of it.”

Ugh. Not this again
. “What is it with you? First you tell me to stay away from that guy and then refuse to give me a reason, and now I’m supposed to stay away from the entire bar
and
everyone in it? Why don’t you just write me a freaking list and tell me exactly who I
can
be friends with? I’m sure it’ll be much easier to keep up with.”

He scoffed. “Believe me, I would have already done it if I thought for one second you’d actually follow it,” he said and then glanced over at me, looking me up and down. “But something tells me you don’t follow orders very well.”

I felt the heated prickle of anger lick my skin, though I refused to give him the satisfaction of responding.

On second thought, “Get bent.”

I went to bed aggravated that night, and didn’t wake up any better the next morning.

The sun was working overtime trying to break through the morning clouds, giving every indication that today would be a buoyant day, only I didn’t feel that way inside. Inside I felt tired and achy, like my bones had been grating themselves against the rigid concrete all night as I slept unsuspectingly.

My uncle was already seated in his usual spot at the kitchen table, busying himself with the week-end paper by the time I strolled downstairs. He looked up to examine me as I plopped down into the chair across from him.

“You look terrible,” he noted, pulling off his reading glasses. His dark hair glossed back in the dull morning light.

“Thanks,” I said and buried my head deep into the crux of my arm. Alas, my ego was still safe from over-inflation. “I think I’m fighting off a bug or something.”

“Oh?” he asked thoughtfully. “What sort of bug?”

“I don’t know, just regular flu stuff, I guess. Tired and achy. It sort of comes and goes.”

“Interesting.”

I lifted my eyes to meet his. “I guess?”

“So, what do you have planned today?” He picked up the newspaper from the table and smoothed it out.

“Nothing really.”

He blinked disapprovingly.

“I don’t know anyone around here,” I defended.

“What about your school friends from last night?”

I groaned and buried my head again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Very well.” He continued after a drawn-out pause, “I’ve been thinking that it might be a good idea for you to get a part-time job while you’re here.”

My head whipped up at the sudden barrage of odious words. “A job?” I squeaked, my eyes wide with repulsion.

“Yes,” he said, stifling a laugh. “You could use the job experience, I’m sure, and it’s a good way to meet new people and develop some financial independence. What do you say?”

What I wanted to say was
hell no
! But what choice did I really have here? I was living under his roof, on his dime. If he wanted me to get a job, I was pretty much getting a job.

“Sure, I guess so,” I said with all the excitement of a deflated balloon.

“Wonderful.” He was obviously unfazed by my own lack of enthusiasm. “I already have something lined up for you—a favor from a friend.”

“A favor?” Was I so unmarketable that he actually had to call in a favor for me? The thought depressed me.

“Here’s the address,” he said as he scribbled something down on a piece of paper and handed it over to me. “Henry will drive you over as soon as you’re ready.”

Right. Because getting chauffeured to work falls right in with that
real-world
job experience he was talking about.

Not even an hour later, I was in the back of the town car, pulling up to a vaguely familiar building. Trails of fog slithered into the car as I rolled down my window to get a better look.
All Saints
, the scene of last night’s crime. It looked different in the light of day sans the flashing lights and people and the intimidating bouncer out front.

“This has to be a mistake,” I said, bemused.

“I don’t believe so,” replied Henry. “Mr. Blackburn gave me the instructions himself,” he said and then exited the vehicle. He walked around the perimeter of the car and opened my door for me. “It’s a fine place to work, Miss Blackburn. I’m sure you’ll be well taken care of here.”

“Jemma,” I corrected absentmindedly as I stepped out of the car, staring up at the structure. “Thanks, Henry.” It came out like an afterthought.

“Have a good day, Miss...Jemma.”

“You too, Henry.”

I walked in through the unmanned doors, cautious and weary of my surroundings as though I were expecting Nikki to pop out of the shadows and assault me with a coke bottle. I immediately noted how strange the place looked in the light of day. It was freakishly dim inside, hollow of any natural light or souls that might help fill up the palpable void. The place just felt eerie to me, and way too quiet.

I was about to make a run for it when I noticed some movement over at the bar from my peripheral. Someone was there, bent down, stacking glasses and setting up.

“Excuse me,” I called out as I walked over.

“Yeah,” he answered casually before straightening out. “What can I do—”

My mouth unhinged.

Trace Macarthur stared back at me, wearing an employee T-shirt and an unmistakable look of shock on his face. One that happened to match my own perfectly.

6. UNINVITED

“What are you doing here?” I asked, confused.

Please don’t say you work here. PLEASE don’t say you work here. PLEASE DON’T—

“I work here,” he said, wiping his hands on the white dish rag as he came around the bar. “My dad owns the place.”

“Your dad
owns
All Saints?

“Yeah.”

“As in, your dad’s the boss here?”

“Yeah.” He furrowed his brow. “What are
you
doing here?”

There was only one reasonable thing to do here: lie and get the heck out. And I was just about to do that when—

“Jemma Blackburn, I presume?”

I looked up to see a tall, polished man approaching us. He had a full head of dark wavy hair and a pair of striking blue eyes that I immediately recognized. Trace’s father, no doubt.

“I’ve been expecting you.” His smile had the same appealing shape as Trace’s, minus the dimples. “Your uncle Karl’s told me so much about you,” he informed and then held out his hand to me. “Peter Macarthur. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

I forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“What is this?” asked Trace, ticking his chin at me as he crossed his arms over his husky chest.

Peter smiled at him as he placed his hand on the back of his neck—a gesture that Trace promptly shook off. There was definitely something clambering beneath the surface between the two of them. Some sort of unspoken divide. “Meet our new waitress.”

I shifted uncomfortably.

Trace’s eyes bounced from his father to me and then back again. “You hired
her
?” he asked incredulously.

“I did.”

“She’s not working here.” A darkness washed through Trace’s eyes—something akin to fury.

Okay. Wow. That was rude.

“Well, no, not yet,” smiled Peter, unfazed. “But she will be.” Before Trace could object again, Peter quickly cut him off. “This isn’t your call to make, son. It’s done.”

An angry choke rumbled from Trace’s throat as he chucked the rag onto the table and took off in the other direction, leaving a gust of wind in his absence, and a bitter taste in my mouth.

What a freaking jerk
! I thought as I fought off the urge to run after him and slap him in the back of the head.

“Please excuse him,” said Peter apologetically. “It’s been a difficult year for him. For all of us. We haven’t been the same since the death of his sister.”

His sister
? “Oh. I didn’t realize…” A familiar, leaden feeling washed over me, diluting the anger I had built up for him into a pool of nothingness. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” He nodded curtly. “Well,” he forced a smile, eager to redirect the conversation back to business. “This is All Saints: good food, good drinks, good music.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He wore his pride like a fine Italian suit. “Have you been here before?”

“Just once. Last night actually.”

“And did you enjoy yourself?”

“Oh my God, yeah. I had an
amazing
time,” I said, lying through my teeth. I mean, really? What else was I supposed to say? He was my future boss, and my uncle’s friend. And besides, I had grown far too good at telling people what they wanted to hear to stop now.

After a few more minutes of idle chit-chat, Mr. Macarthur took me on a tour of the place, starting with the
employees only
area on the other side of the black double doors.

“This is where all the magic happens,” he smiled, extending his arm around the pristine silver kitchen. “That’s Sawyer, our head cook,” he continued, motioning to a man with brown eyes and matching long brown hair secured under a bandana.

I waved awkwardly at him. He smiled back.

“The kitchen’s open from Noon until nine p.m., seven days a week,” he explained. “After that, we only serve sides.”

He followed up with a brief introduction into the comings and goings of the kitchen, like how to give an order in and where to pick it up once it was ready.

The tour continued down the adjoining corridor.

“This is the main office,” he said pointing into the medium-sized room that had a messy desk, filing cabinets and scattered chairs. He introduced me to the red-haired, petite-in-stature Manager, April Demarco, who made a brief appearance before hurrying off to tend to some disaster in the lady’s washroom.

The last stop in the tour was the employee bathroom and the storeroom. I poked my head into the latter.

“It’s your standard stock room. It’s got all your napkins, salt, ketchup, and all that other good stuff. Just remember, whatever leaves this room has to be marked here,” he said and pointed to an inventory clipboard hanging on the wall. “They’ll explain all of this once your official training starts.”

I nodded and smiled even though I wasn’t entirely sure I was looking forward to all these mundane tasks. I’d been on kitchen duty back at the hospital and nearly expired from utter boredom.

Thirty minutes later, the tour was over and we were back in the main hall, which had now filled up with the lunch crowd. We sat down at one of the corner tables to fill out some forms.

“You can start right away,” he offered. “A few hours after school, and alternating week-ends.”

“That works for me.”

“It’s pretty quiet during the week days so you’re more than welcome to do your school work here in between service. You certainly wouldn’t be the only one.”

That was a definite plus. I smiled.

“Looks like we’re all set,” he said rising from the table and holding out his hand again. “It was wonderful meeting you, my dear. I’m glad to have you with us.”

“Thanks for the opportunity. I’ll try not to disappoint.”

“We’re all rooting for your success here,” he nodded. “Just leave the forms in the office when you’re done, and you can start training with the assistant manager right away.”

I nodded once and returned to my form before my head popped up with an afterthought. “Mr. Macarthur,” I called after him as he walked away. “Who would the assistant manager be?”

He flashed an even row of gleaming teeth. “That would be my son, Trace, of course.”

Of course
. Who else would it be?

After dropping off the forms in the main office, I asked Sawyer, the twenty-something year old cook, where I could find the assistant manager and was kindly directed to the ladies washroom, where Trace was moonlighting as a plumber.

I walked in and found him spread out across the floor with his head under the sink and a wrench in his hand. It was a pretty good look for him, though I tried not to notice. He looked up at me and ticked his head once, as if to say, ‘what do you want?’ without actually saying the words.

“Look, if you don’t want me here, just say the word and I’m gone,” I said, crossing my arms. “I don’t want this stupid job anyway. I’m just trying to keep my uncle off my back.”

He sat up, wiping the thin veil of sweat from his forehead. I noticed his arms and neck had the same coating and was generously highlighting his muscles. Nice, defined muscles—

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, rising to his feet. He pulled up the edge of his shirt and wiped his face with it, revealing all sorts of hidden things like a ripped stomach and this v-shaped groove that started around his hips and moved all the way down, disappearing below the hem of his jeans. “If it’s not this, they’ll just find something else.”

It was all I could do to keep from reaching forward and tracing the deep ridges with my finger. I barely managed to tear my eyes away in time when his shirt came back down.

Now, what the heck was he going on about?

I looked at him with a blank stare.

“You can stay,” he said finally, over-pronouncing each word as though I were hard of hearing.

It wasn’t my ears I was having a hard time controlling.

“Right,” I nodded rapidly, trying to erase the image of his bare abdomen from my mind like a real-life Etch A Sketch. “So, I guess I’ll need some training?”

“And a uniform,” he said, as he picked up his toolkit from the counter and walked out past me.

And maybe a bucket of ice.

I followed him back to the main office where he opened up a storage cabinet and then turned to me. His eyes surfed over my body. I crossed my arms over my chest, all modest, even though I had just assaulted him with my own eyes not two minutes ago.

“You look like a small,” he said and then handed me a white T-shirt with the black logo on the upper-right corner.

I unfolded it and spread it across my chest, sizing it up. “It looks tight.”

“It’s supposed to be,” he said wryly. “You can change in here. I’ll wait for you outside.”

As soon as the door shut, I pulled off my top and exchanged it for the too-small T-shirt. It
really
was tight, and didn’t leave much of anything to the imagination. I wondered if I should insist on a medium as I eyed myself in the wall mirror.

I decided that I would, and pulled open the office door. Trace was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, and his head cocked to the side.

His arresting blues lit up as he looked me over.

“I think I need a medium.”

He slanted a smile. “I think so too.”

I had anticipated spending the rest of the afternoon following Trace around and getting familiarized with my job, so I was rather surprised when he unexpectedly passed me off to Zane Brenner, the head bartender, instead. Apparently, Trace was less than willing to spend any time with me, training me or otherwise. In fact, he seemed to have a real aversion to it.

Luckily, Zane didn’t seem to mind me, or the added task of having to show me the ins and outs while serving his own customers at the bar. Between his wry humor, and friendly nature, he was easily the most-likeable employee at All Saints.

The evening wore on quickly, and before I knew it, the place was filled up with customers, giving me ample opportunity to put my training into practice. I even got a chance to wait on a few tables by myself when the manager, April, and another waitress got held up with a shipment crisis at the back.

The job was easy enough and I got the hang of it fairly quickly, though my feet were singing an entirely different tune halfway through my shift.

Taylor and Ben showed up just after dinner as a fresh crowd of younger people began to arrive. It was Saturday night and All Saints appeared to be everyone’s favorite place. Or maybe it was the only place in town, I still wasn’t sure yet.

“So, do I get a ‘friends and family’ discount now that you’re working here?” asked Taylor, fully amused with the revelation. She hopped up one of the bar stools.

“I don’t need a discount,” said Ben, without looking up from the menu he was browsing. “But I’ll pay you an asinine amount of money if you can get us some beer in here.”

“Let me think about that…um, no.”

“Why not?” he laughed.

“I don’t know, maybe because of this little thing called the law? Ever heard of it?” Apparently, I was really big on it.

“My father’s a prosecutor,” he said with a bratty smile. “Not only have I heard of it, I drink to it whenever I can.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at his backwards logic.

“Just ignore him,” instructed Taylor. “He’s inept.”

“That’s not what you were saying on the way over here,” replied Ben as he rose from his seat and tweaked his eyebrows.

“You. Freaking. Wish.”

Grinning wildly, he moved to poke her side, but she slapped his hand away before he could make contact. He didn’t seem the least bit phased by it as he walked off to the restrooms, and even though she rolled her eyes at him, I definitely noticed her stare lingering a good while longer than it needed to.

When she turned back to me, her expression was weighty. “I was worried about you yesterday.”

“Sorry about taking off like that,” I said, tucking a loose curl behind my ear. “I had to get out of there.”

“I don’t blame you. Nikki was completely out of her mind. I still can’t believe she did that,” she said shaking her head. “It’s too bad you didn’t stick around though, Trace cut her down in front of everyone.”

“He did?” My interest suddenly peeked.

“She deserved it too,” she said unsympathetically. “I mean, who does that anyway?”

Psycho ex-girlfriends who forget to take their meds, that’s who. “I just want to forget the whole thing.” It happened, it sucked, and I’ve accepted it. I had no intention of reliving the events over and over again. I had enough real-life nightmares to contend with.

“I hear you, babe. So how’s it been working with Trace anyway?” she asked. “Is it majorly awkward?”

“Not really,” I shrugged. “I’ve hardly seen him tonight.” That part was the truth. He had made himself incredibly scarce all evening, and I had the nagging suspicion I was the reason.