Nothing More (Landon Gibson 1)

The lights suspended from the ceiling are moving, casting shadows and casting light on her body. The exposed skin of her neck and chest is glowing under their slow dance. She’s staring at me, and I’m staring at her, and I can’t stop.

I look over at Mr. Hot and he’s not paying any attention to us. I sort of wish he would. I wish he could see this . . .

What’s wrong with me?I’ve got to stop talking to Hardin so much. He’s turning me into an asshole.

A neurotic asshole.

Nora keeps eye contact with me. “Let’s go sit down?”

It’s slightly unsettling, keeping eye contact with anyone, especially a beautiful girl who I’ve already sort of admitted that I’m attracted to. When she kissed me, my body responded in a way that had me convinced my body had always been waiting on her, on such a kiss.

She turns back to the bar, thanks Mitch, and then hands me a drink with a strand of red licorice tied into a knot in it. There’s a little stick in the drink with an upside-down skyscraper on the end of it. It appears to be made from wood. I’m impressed. Nora’s drink has a little note clipped on its side. I’m going to assume that it’s a little letter. I’m doubly impressed.

Nora continues to stare at me and I remember that she said we should sit down. I nod, wanting to move away from the crowded bar area. The row of tables looks pretty crowded, too, but at least we can sit down there. The music is nice, low and steady with a good beat. There’s no dance floor; it’s a cocktail bar that has a small snacks menu, not a nightclub. I still can’t believe I didn’t just look up the place instead of overthinking it.

Nora wraps her fingers around my wrist and leads me toward the back of the bar. The space gets darker and darker the farther we move away from the bar and finally we stop at a table full of women who look up and smile and nod at us. It still amazes me how close to one another people are willing to sit in this city. The small tables are all lined up next to each other and you can hear everything the people around you are saying, though the music is so loud that it may not be a problem. A few of the seats at the table are empty and Nora gestures for me to sit down at one. She sits across from me and raises her drink to mine. Clinking our glasses, I poke at the licorice and at the little wooden building and move them out of the way before I take a drink.

Holy hell, this tastes like gasoline!I somehow knew that it would.

I smile at her, but shake my head and wave my hands over the drink. “I’m going to sit this one out.”

She laughs, covering her mouth and nodding. “I don’t blame you! He made them strong.” She pushes a tumbler full of water toward me with a smile. She grabs my drink and sniffs it, scrunching her nose at the harsh smell before pushing it away, toward the edge of the table, farther away from me.

I like that Nora doesn’t mind if I choose not to drink. She takes another sip of her cocktail and licks at the pink sugary rim of her glass. She unclips the note and rips open the flap on the little envelope. I give her a moment to read the words, then I reach for the card. She huffs, rolling her eyes at the corny message. Her fingers play at the thin chain of her necklace as I read:

Dear Lover, don’t open a new door if something is hiding behind the other.

I laugh and hand the letter back to her. It’s clever marketing. While I wonder if they actually change the notes out and if so, how often, Nora looks slightly uncomfortable as she begins to introduce me to her friends.

“Melody.” Nora points to a pretty Asian girl. Her eyeliner is thick, drawn in a perfectly straight line and out to a point.

“Hi,” Melody says, looking from Nora to me.

The next girl’s name is Raine, then Scarlett, then Maggy, and quickly the faces are blurring together because, really, I just want to talk to Nora alone. I want to ask her things like what she’s been doing since she came out here from Washington, how she likes her coffee, what season she prefers—basically get to know her a bit more since, even though we met a while ago, we never really hung out.

I notice that the friend of Nora’s named Maggy says something and taps the shoulder of the girl next to her—and realization strikes me like a damn match.

Maggy is Maggy.

Maggy. . .

Which means . . .

The girl whose shoulder she taps turns around, and her face twists in confusion when she sees