Reading His Mind

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Reading His Mind

Copyright © 2015 by Melissa Shirley

ISBN: 978-1-61333-821-6

Cover art by Fiona Jayde

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Reading His Mind

By

Melissa Shirley

I am psychic. I do not see dead people or have visions of the future, but I can hear things—the thoughts inside the minds of others. Though, nothing prepared me for the shock of hearing my name in the thoughts blowing NASCAR laps around my brain.

Three tequila shots past sober to any degree, my head swam with voices of unspoken hopes and desperations, judgings, and rationalizations. Then the sound of my own name broke through, whispered on a wish. I scanned the dark interior of the Big Red Brew Pub—a couple in the corner, a group of bachelorettes, a few guys playing pool, a couple of random people filling barstools down from mine, and Jace Laugherty. Huh.

A symphony of nostalgia washed over me, drowning me in feelings I had long ago forgotten. I wrestled with my mind, trying to clear everyone out but him. Sadness radiated from him in waves, slamming into me with hurricane force. His heart ached, but I couldn’t focus enough to determine the cause.

It didn’t, however, escape me as ironic that, during the twelve years I had been gone, I’d not thought of him more than a few times—and then only because his name had been splashed across the sports page for more than six months of each year. At the moment, I could think of nothing else.

Unfortunately, though, in the same place at the same time—four barstools separated us—his sorrow caused such blindness he didn’t realize how little space, virtual feet . His mind whispered my name because—surprising to me—my sister and his brother had flown across the country for their wedding on Saturday. Despite the presumed happy news, Jace sat knee deep in mourning. My sister had chosen Max over him. Poor Jace had chosen the wrong sister to pin his hopes on. Without knowing what he’d done, he’d beckoned for me. Okay, maybe not. But his thoughts used my name, and he looked good—really, really good.

I ordered two more shots then walked the five steps to where he sat chatting with a dumb blonde. Her single train of thought centered on the shampoo/conditioner combo that made his hair look so “dreamy.” Unable to stop myself, I groaned aloud, setting a shot in front of him before taking the empty barstool at his elbow. “You look like you need a distraction.”

“Excuse me?” One more huff or puff and the blonde bimbette’s top would lose all effectiveness and her ample bosom would spill across the bar. “We’re talking here.”

Silicone made me mean. “Oh, blow away, Barbie. I knew him first.”

Jace glanced at me. His eyes widened, a crooked grin replacing the glum look the blonde had chosen to ignore. “Lyric?”

“It’s been a long time.”

Surprise lifted his eyebrows. He leaned forward to wrap both arms around me. My memories fogged all other thoughts, dispelled every sound. He’d been my next-door neighbor after my parents dumped me at Gran’s at the tender age of eleven. His place in my young life had left its mark on my adult being. He’d never treated me like I belonged in a sideshow at the county fair. He’d been the first boy I’d ever kissed, the first boy I’d ever loved, the one person in my home state of Texas I’d considered a friend.

“What’re you doing here?” Before the words left his throat, his mind filled in the gap.
Of course. She’s here for the wedding
.

“No. Actually, I didn’t even know about it until you thought of it. I’m working here.” I worked in Vegas a lot, hence the need for the apartment upstairs.

He drank his shot then slid the empty glass from one hand to the other across the scarred wooden bar.

I hadn’t spoken to Melody in more than two years, but I still stung over the slight of not being invited—at the very least, told. I gulped my own drink in a quick bitter swallow then slammed the glass next to his. He motioned for two more.

“I always thought you were Mel’s destiny.” When I hurt, I liked to share the pain—my words had hit their mark.

“So did I.”

We downed our next drinks. The bartender, keeping one eye on us and the other on her work, busied her mind with wondering how she could get Jace to take her home. I wiggled my eyebrows, earning a glare from her. I couldn’t restrain a chuckle.

“What?” His face crinkled with the question.

“Oh, just random girl thoughts.”

“Yours or someone else’s?” He knew me so well.

“Doesn’t matter.”

We drank in silence, each lamenting the states of our lives. I was more than a little lonesome, and he sat, trying to figure out how he’d messed things up with Mel. Lucky for him, the alcohol made me giddy rather than morose, so it was easy to push those thoughts to the far corners of my brain. Because of the alcohol, his thoughts were as fuzzy to me as my own. I seldom had to play on a level field, and I didn’t care for it with Jace.

He turned, and full-on, OMG, smoking hotness delighted my eyeballs. His blond hair, always too long, shone in silky waves with finger trails running through the top—his nervous habit often disrupted his follicles. His eyes, though sad, were as blue as a scorching Texas sky. His body—toned, muscled, long, lean—said he dedicated himself to staying in shape, to keeping his athlete’s form. A shiver of the attraction I had run from at sixteen crept up my spine.

Jace, too, felt the effects of the Patron. “Did you know you have a very odd name? I mean, standing alone, it’s kind of pretty. But your sister’s name’s Melody.” He shook his head. “Who does that? Lyric and Melody. A song.”

“Wow.” I pushed his shot glass away before the bartender could refill it. “No more alcohol for you. You insulted me.”

“Was your mom into music?”

“I think so. Maybe.” I chuckled at the irony of the situation. “Who’re you to talk,
Jasper
?”

“Hey, my name’s cool.” He jabbed a thumb against his chest to emphasize his point.

“Only because that vampire movie made it cool. You used to hate your name.” A memory, long forgotten, slipped into my mind before I realized it had happened.

“Oh, I still do.” His head bobbled in agreement.

“Then don’t make fun of mine, mean boy.”

He laughed and caressed my cheek with the pad of his finger. The tingles slipped along my skin, badder than ever. “I always thought it would be so cool to be able to do what you do.”

I shook my head. “It’s not always cool.”

“How can you say that? You know what everyone thinks.”

I sat up straighter. “Allow me to explain.”

“Please do.”

“Thank you.” I searched my alcohol-addled brain for an explanation. After a few minutes, I settled on my morning ritual. “Okay. So, you get up in the morning and you
need
a cup of coffee. You go out to the kitchen and…. Oh, no!” Slapping my hands to my cheeks, I had a Macaulay Culkin/
Home Alone
moment. “You’re out. You rush into the bedroom to throw on a pair of sweats. All you can think of is the first drink. It’s your sole reason for living. You aren’t worried about the toothbrush or the shower. There is plenty of time for hygiene after your first miraculous, life-giving taste.”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

I sighed. “Don’t be difficult.” I shook my head. “As I was saying, you throw on a pair of sweats and race down the block to Starbucks, a double-shot mocha latte fogging all rhyme and reason.” I waved my arms while I told the story, on occasion forcing him to back up or duck his head to avoid a slap in the face.

“Girls.”

“What?”

“Real men don’t drink double-shot mocha anything.”

“This is my story. You hush.” Smiling, I laid a finger over his lips. “Anyway, you’re standing in Starbucks, and it’s clear you just rolled out of bed.” I shrugged, making my disgusted face. “Now, the truth is, people hardly every say anything about the tousled hair or lack of a shower, but despite popular belief, very few people find bedhead sexy. How do you think I know?”

He tilted his head, his lids at half-mast.

“People don’t say it, but they think it.”

“I think bedhead is very sexy, especially if I’m the one who made it that way.” He winked and heat zoomed up my neck.

I chuckled. “Good Lord, Jasper. Do you ever turn it off?”

“No. Can
you
ever turn it off?”

“No, but unless I am drinking, I can control it pretty well.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” He laughed, and my toes gave an involuntary curl.

Same old Jace.

“Can you hear what all of these people are thinking?” He pointed to a table in the corner. “What’s going on with them?”

“Jace.” For the first time, he asked me to haul my talents out for show and tell. For the first time, he treated me as an oddity. It might have hurt had I not been knee deep in a big bottle of Jose Cuervo.

“Just them. Then I’ll never ask you to do it again. I promise.”

I blew out a tequila-breath sigh. “Fine.”

I tried to clear my own hazy thoughts away to focus on the couple in the corner booth. They were one of those twenty-something couples who’d ventured away from the Strip, looking for a bit of peace and quiet for a romantic evening. At least, her plan included romance. His, on the other hand, revolved around his search for the world’s best hot wings.

Pretty, long chestnut hair similar to my own, with sparkling green eyes and a tan achieved by hours upon hours of sun worship, she encompassed the very idea of the All-American girl. Dark haired, dark eyed, the guy dug into his third plate of all-you-can-eat chicken wings while she watched his enthusiasm.

I honed in on the girl. “She’s thinking—no, hoping, that tonight’s the night he asks her to marry him. She’s picturing an obscenely big brick house with a library filled with first editions, maybe a swimming pool.” I paused, a picture of the house floating across my mind. Her thoughts meshed into mine, and I clutched my shirt over my heart. “Aw, she added a couple of kids. Oh, a dog, too.” It painted a sweet picture reminiscent of the American dream—the one little girls grow up seeing in their fantasies until some stupid jerk yanks the rug out from under them.

“What about him?”

When I shifted my focus, I had to lean back. The change sent a perfectly still room into a spin. I waited for it to slow to a stop then tried again. The younger man’s thoughts combined with mine, forcing a laugh to bubble up from deep in my stomach. “He’s thinking,
Damn. These wings are good.
”