Twice Upon a Blue Moon (15 page)

The bartender shook his head and he snagged the crisp bill. He walked away muttering under his breath about a lover’s tiff.

Beneath his makeshift compress, Ward flexed his fingers weakly. “Aren’t you all Florence Nightingale? You can give it a rest, you know. He’s not here.”

Hazel didn’t have to ask who Ward was referring to. She withdrew her hands from his chilled fingers, annoyance sparking in her gut. “I know he’s not here. He’s in Shanghai, right? Business trip or something…”
You’re not the only one he talks to, jerk.
Then again, she wouldn’t have been surprised if Dylan had come back early and failed to share the good news. They didn’t have that kind of relationship.

They didn’t have much of a relationship at all. Hazel banished the thought.

Ward’s expression remained pinched and oddly quizzical.

“He didn’t tell you.”

“What?” It shouldn’t have surprised her to discover that Dylan had more secrets. He compartmentalized well. Hazel was a rank amateur by comparison.

“He went to see his birth parents.”

Hazel cocked an eyebrow. “If he didn’t tell me, then I’m not supposed to know.” She meant it as a rebuff. She didn’t need him to funnel intelligence. She didn’t need him widening the chasm she’d already started digging between herself and Dylan.

“He didn’t tell
me
not to tell you,” Ward defended, pedantic. He exchanged the melting ice cubes for the whiskey. Hazel saw herself reflected in the fast-growing puddle on the counter. She should’ve pinned her hair up, like Sadie. She should’ve touched up her makeup. Ward’s accented lilt interrupted the self-reproach. “Dylan knows I’m all about explicit requests.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Hazel made a point not to look away. This was one fight she didn’t want to back away from. “Was it explicit when you lied to him?”

The music changed once again, a sultry Caribbean rhythm taking over from the heart-pounding techno drums. Two more couples split from the watering hole to join the herd. Hazel merely noticed them out of the corner of her eye. She kept her undivided attention on Ward, the lion camouflaged into a wounded gazelle.

His eyebrows shot up. “When did I lie to him?”

You’re going to make me say it, are you?

She remembered reading somewhere that sadists were ubiquitous in all walks of life but disproportionately represented among the one percent. Something about power and wealth just drew them out of their shells.

“You told him I checked out,” she recalled. “We both know that’s not true.” It took everything she had not to fist a hand in Ward’s silky black shirt and give him a sound shake. She wanted to know why he’d take the trouble to lie for her, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking outright.

Ward had the nerve to scowl and cock his head, at once bemused and interested. “I haven’t the faintest clue what you mean… What did I miss?”

“Bullshit.” She wasn’t a celebrity, but Hazel Whitley, Dunby native who studied at the University of Missouri for three years before eventually dropping out, couldn’t claim anonymity.

“Ah.” Ward deliberately set his tumbler on the ice-soaked bar. Already the contents had dipped to half. “You think I should judge you for a youthful mistake.”

“Video’s still out there. So are the pictures.”

“One among many,” Ward said, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the complaint. “We all make errors of judgment. I’m sure you regret it very much.” His gaze held hers, gravid with meaning. There was only one right answer to that non-question.

He wanted to see her grovel.

The thought rankled. Hazel rolled her eyes. “Difference being that some of us land on their feet.” Whatever black marks tainted Ward’s past, he had the resources to expunge them into obscurity.

“Only because they had a Florence Nightingale to keep them from hitting the floor.” He held up his swollen fist and drove home the point with a wince.

Hazel shook her head. No one had asked him to play knight in shining armor. “You really don’t know much about throwing a punch, do you?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. It’s been years since Dylan taught me how to box… And he’s a dirty fighter.”

“Dylan?” It was hard to imagine. Hazel tried to picture him out of his bespoke worsted wool suits and silk ties, his perfectly coiffed-to-unruliness hair, teaching Ward how to land a punch. It didn’t come easy. He didn’t have the look of a brawler.

Ward grinned. “Oh yes, hair-pulling and everything. I once saw him kick a boy in the teeth
after
he was down.”

“This was at Ledwich?” She struggled to pass it off as an idle question.

Since Dylan had first mentioned the university, Hazel had done her due diligence online. Ward wasn’t the only one who could run a Google search. She knew that the school had been founded in the thirties—a rectory transformed into an all-boys academy, then a college. Over the years, it had remained a cloistered but not insignificant stepping stone for a number of well-known moguls and politicians who had gone on to graduate from Harvard and Princeton.

Due to the small size of its facilities and its religious heritage, no women students were admitted, even to this day. Instead, a women’s university had been erected two miles away. It had opened its doors in the seventies—a Reaganite solution to a feminist objection.

“Dylan told you about that?” Ward seemed oddly perplexed.

Hazel knew the answer she should give.
He mentioned it in passing, mostly to explain why you and he were you and he.
What came out was a solemn nod.

“Interesting.” Ward walked his fingertips around the rim of the whiskey glass, over and over until Hazel started thinking about germs and weird blood and spirits cocktails. Her thoughts had just about run away with her when Ward added, “He despised me back then, you know—with good reason.”

“You mean he wasn’t desensitized to your winning personality yet?”

The look Ward shot her way was withering. “Most people agree that I have a certain
je ne sais quoi
.”

“Most people may need to brush up on their French.” Hazel picked up a melting ice cube and pressed it gently to Ward’s swelling knuckles. He flinched but didn’t retract his hand. “What was he like back then?”
What’s he like now? Can I trust him?

Will it hurt when he leaves?

She expected Ward to fire back with a quip of his own, but he was too busy staring at their hands—his bruised and drenched in ice water, hers pale and small by comparison.

“Angry,” he said after a beat. “Justifiably so. If you think it’s bad being underprivileged, you should try being underprivileged on a remote campus filled with walking, talking trust funds.”

“I thought their type usually went to Ivy League schools…” Legacy students were a shoo-in everywhere they went. If not, there was always a donation a parent could make, a new library that needed funding. Back in the days when SAT scores meant everything to Hazel, the prospect of a rejection letter had loomed like the sword of Damocles.

She bit her lip when she thought about the shit she’d put her parents through. They were well off by Dunby standards, but there was no way they could have afforded to send their children to upmarket colleges.

Not that it mattered, in the end. Hazel had dropped out in her junior year. She’d never looked back.

“If they can hack it,” Ward mused, reeling her back into the present. “If not, Ledwich guarantees networking and a lifetime of job appointments through their alumni network.” He met her confusion with a shallow smile. “Dylan grew up in Oakland. He wore plaid and ripped jeans and he’d never even sat in a BMW. He stuck out like a sore thumb… I appreciated that.”

“You still do.”

Hazel regretted speaking as soon as a shadow fell across Ward’s face. In the blink of an eye, he went from fond reminiscence to sullen, closed-off glower. She couldn’t backtrack. She had to press on. Here, in a crowded club, with Sadie’s inevitable return maybe seconds away, she felt like she was finally about to get some answers.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Ward’s features settled into a frosty mask. He removed his hand from beneath hers and shook it out. “My relationship with Dylan is not up for discussion.”

“Funny,” Hazel shot back, “that’s exactly what he said.”

But the time for heart-to-hearts was over. Ward had regressed back to cool civility, as if he hadn’t just swung a sloppy right hook to defend her honor.

He drew himself up straight as he slid off the bar stool. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Hazel. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He disappeared into the crowd before Hazel could stop him. In so doing, he nearly bumped shoulders with a flush-faced Sadie, towing Frank behind her.

They made the perfect couple—giggling, holding hands—and Hazel felt an entirely unjustified pang of envy stab between her ribs. She mustered a smile as they joined her at the bar, but her thoughts were still moored to the slant of Ward’s shoulders as he vanished from sight.

Chapter Eleven

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

Hazel nodded for the umpteenth time. “Positive. I’m kind of beat. Think I need to hit the hay.” And there was only so much humiliation she could suffer in one night.

Sadie’s good intentions notwithstanding, the constant directives to let loose and have a good time were beginning to grate. Hazel had never been particularly adept at shamming joyfulness.

“Okay,” Sadie relented, sighing. “But take a cab home. It’s late.”

“Sure.”

They had driven to the club in Frank’s battered old Honda Civic—a sensible car for a sensible man. It was still waiting beneath a street lamp when Hazel stepped out of the club and into the frigid night.

Before Frank, Sadie would have wheedled and complained, but she would have left with Hazel when Hazel ran out of steam. Because it was late and because they’d put up with a lot since moving out west, they knew the value of having each other’s backs.

I have my own back, thank you very much.

Hazel pulled her denim jacket tighter around herself. A salty wind was blowing in from the ocean, stirring tendrils of hair into her eyes. She crossed the street and started toward the bus stop a block and a half away. Splitting cab fare with Sadie was one thing—like splitting the gas bill for the Volvo—but Hazel’s insides churned at the thought of covering the expense of a taxi ride out of her fast depleting bank account.

She caught her reflection in a shop window. Her mascara hadn’t leaked down her cheeks. Her cat-eye liquid liner had actually held in place. She made a point not to let her gaze dip below the neck, although the black tank top
did
make her breasts seem a little fuller.

She looked
good
, which wasn’t a sentiment she was familiar with.

She deserved better than men like Ward deigning to give her the time of day. She certainly deserved better than Dylan, who pretended to be emotionally available but obviously wasn’t.
You can’t be romantically invested in two people at the same time. It doesn’t work.

Did it? Was she setting feminism back a few decades by refusing to recognize the revolutionary potential of free love? Her thoughts were so engrossing that she didn’t notice the tricked-out Mustang crawling by the curb until a voice rang out of the passenger side window.

“You all alone, sweetheart? That’s fucking criminal.”

Hazel turned. She knew she shouldn’t have. Rule number one of life in a big city was keeping your head down, not making eye contact with strangers who accosted you in public places. Rule number two was carrying some sort of defensive weapon—a Taser, for instance, or the pepper spray she’d left on the keychain at home.

The passenger of the Mustang shot the driver a smirk as soon as he saw he had her attention. It wasn’t a pleased smile. It was the smile of sharks before they bite your leg off.

“Where’re you headed in such a hurry?” asked the man in the passenger seat. He sported sideburns and a baseball cap worn backwards, a loose cotton tee on his otherwise skinny frame.

Hazel’s silence did nothing to deter her suitors. They were coming up to a crossroads and the driver was already signaling that he wanted to block her path with the Mustang. He leaned across his buddy to catch Hazel’s attention. “Hey, how much for a blow job?”

Anger sparking beneath her veins, Hazel flashed them a glare. “Fuck you.”

Tires squealed as the car pulled to an abrupt stop. Hazel saw it happen in slow motion, like something out of a Hollywood movie or a terrible nightmare.

“What did you say, bitch?” Baseball Cap reached for the car door.

Hazel knew what came next. She didn’t hang around for confirmation, bolting down the sidewalk as fast as her legs would carry her. Most of the shop windows were dark at this hour, the prospect of business after midnight too unlikely to justify a graveyard shift.

Where’s a Marco’s when you need one?

The first lit storefront she saw might as well have been the pearly gates. Hazel pushed the door open with both hands and spilled inside on wobbly legs.

Breaths wheezed in and out of her chest.

“Uh, we’re about to close,” said the shopkeeper. Metal rings and studs gleamed on her face like little drops of moonlight.

“I just need a second. There were some guys…” Hazel waved a hand. She had a hard time stringing two words together with her heart jammed in her throat.

Her phone shrilled to life before she could offer a more adequate explanation. Hazel plucked it out with shaking hands. The number that flashed on screen was unfamiliar. She answered anyway.

“So I don’t like how we left things,” Ward volleyed. “It occurs to me that I was a bit of a jerk—“

“Where are you?”

The question seemed to throw him off his stride. “Uh, on my way to the loft?”

“Can you swing by the club again?” It wasn’t far.

“Sure. Do you want to get a drink or…” Ward’s accent thickened when he lost control of the conversation. It was something of a relief.