Smoke & Mirrors by Skye Jordan

1

Isabel

It’s almost midnight when I pull into the Cockloft’s parking lot.

I stare, blurry eyed, at the red neon sign. “Only a man would name a bar the Cockloft.”

The term evidently relates to fire in some way. Tucker tried to explain the significance of it, but he may as well have been speaking pig Latin.

I leave the engine on to keep the heater going as flurries of snowflakes melt on my windshield. When I left New York, it was a balmy and beautiful sixty-five degrees. Three days later, I’m now in Oregon, and it’s—I glance at the temperature reader on my dash—twenty-seven degrees.

I wasn’t expecting snow in Oregon in October, but then I haven’t been back to this state in a decade. And I’ve never been to Hood River, a little town an hour or so from Portland.

My fuzzy mind pulls up the memory of Portland from my childhood, and the dusting and slush that disappointed me every season. But that’s certainly not the case here tonight. The snow grows heavier, falling from the dark night like confetti.

As a combo bar and grill, the Cockloft closes around 10:00 p.m., but there are four trucks in the parking lot, not including my brother’s, and all of them have firefighter decals on their back windows. I search my mind for the day of the week and realize I’ve shown up on poker night.

I drop my head back against the seat and close my eyes. “Dammit.”

I’m not prepared to see anyone but Tucker. I would pay dearly for Tucker to be the only one here—I mean, if I had any money left. Currently, I’m down to forty-eight cents. Forty-eight cents to my name. One quarter, two dimes, and three pennies.

“How in the hell is this my life?”

After driving three thousand miles in three days, stopping only to load up on cheap snacks and nap in the Jeep, my butt is numb and every other part of my body aches—back, arms, hips, legs. My neck is as tight as a steel rod, creating a killer headache. I can’t take one more minute in this driver’s seat.

I shut down the engine, grab my jacket from the passenger’s seat, and step out into the night. Silence crowds me. Deep, moving silence. The kind you can’t find anywhere in New York city, or Portland, for that matter. The kind I’ve never experienced before. The kind I didn’t realize I needed until right this minute.

I slide into my parka as the darkness wraps around me, and the snow tickles my face like angel wings. I take a deep breath, and the scent of clean, cold, fresh, pine-filled air fills my nose, my lungs, my head. It’s so intense and stunning, it overwhelms me for a moment. I float for several long seconds in this new place, my new reality, caught between excitement and fear, unsure if I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown or a mental breakthrough.

“Holy shit,” I say on a deep exhale. “I wasn’t as ready for this as I thought.” I look around at the unfamiliar surroundings, and tears burn my eyes. “What in the fuck am I doing? Who in the fuck am I?”

I feel like Alice in Wonderland, and I’ve just dropped through the rabbit hole. But somehow, I don’t see a noble destiny ahead. Unlike Alice and her quest to end the Red Queen’s reign, I’m just trying to get back on my feet.

I have to pull myself together to face men other than Tucker. I drag the band out of my hair, and the bird’s nest goes everywhere. With the help of melting snow, I work the insanity into loose waves, then use the side mirror to touch up my lip gloss and add concealer to the bags under my eyes.

I straighten and look down at my clothes. The torn jeans work, but I get back into the car to switch out my grubby sweatshirt for a black off-the-shoulder Tom Ford cashmere. I always get a rush of pride when I wear this treasure. It retails for over fourteen hundred dollars, but I grabbed it at an industry sale for seventy-five bucks—obviously mispriced by an intern. Still, I ate rice and beans for the following two weeks to keep the apartment’s lights on.

When I look about as good as it’s going to get, I take a deep breath and enter the bar. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside. And way nicer inside than portrayed in the pictures Tucker sent me when it was newly renovated. Another rush of emotion fills my chest. Tucker deserves good in his life.

A round of hearty laughter pulls my gaze toward the back of the empty dining room, where five guys sit around a table littered with half-empty beer glasses, cards, and poker chips. A table nearby holds ravaged snack containers and empty pizza boxes.

I recognize Tucker immediately, and my heart squeezes. He’s facing away from me, and I take the second I need to push the emotions into the background. I haven’t seen him in way too long. And I see Cole sitting to Tucker’s right. Two others at the table are young, guys I don’t know, but I’ll bet my next influx of cash—which I foresee coming in the next hour—that the man sitting on Tucker’s left, the one with a head of jet-black hair, is Logan Roberts.

Right on cue, my stomach lifts, then coils. I know I’m together enough to fool Tucker, probably Cole too, but Logan… He’s always been more astute than most.

I slide out of my jacket and start toward the table. One of the guys I don’t know sees me and smiles. “Hey, there, ma’am. I’m sorry, but we’re closed.”

“Buchanan,” Tucker says, “did you forget to turn off the sign again?”

“Oh. My. God.” Cole puts down his cards. “No fucking way.” He pushes his chair back and stands, arms open to me. “Damn, girl. Look at you. All grown up and gorgeous.”

I feel all eyes are on me as I walk straight into Cole’s embrace. “And you’re all grown up and buff as hell.”

By the time Cole releases me, Tucker and Logan are standing. I mean to look at my brother, but all I need is a glimpse of Logan to be completely distracted. I categorize him in three seconds—built, hot, and still broody as hell. Those New York models pale in comparison to this guy.

Tucker hugs me hard and quick, then pushes me back by the arms and frowns at me. “You’re too thin. What’s wrong? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? How did you get here?”

“A girl can never be too thin. Everything is fine.” I toss my jacket over a chair nearby and tousle his hair. “You need a haircut. Let me say hi to Logan.”

I sidestep Tucker and face Logan. His smile is…I can’t quite figure it out. Sort of sweet, sort of amused, sort of…wary? Or maybe concerned?

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him as I walk into his arms for a hug. Christ, he smells orgasmic, like fir needles, cedarwood, bergamot, and leather.

“Everything is fine.” I pull back, light-headed from his scent, and look him up and down. “Including you. You’re lookin’ good, Roberts.”

That warms up his smile and quiets some of the suspicion in his eyes. Eyes that are even more striking than I remember. Bright jade green, rimmed in thick spiky black lashes. Eyes a woman could melt into.

“You too,” he says. Always a man of few words.

I turn toward the other men at the table. “Hi, I’m Isabel, Tucker’s little sister.”

“Carter.” One of the guys lifts his hand. He’s dark skinned, dark eyed, and handsome.

The other guy waves from the other side of the table. He’s an all-American sweetheart. “Royal.”

The only thing missing from this setting is Evan. The fourth of Tucker’s band of brothers growing up. He died in a fire almost three years ago now, and his absence here hurts.

“Where have you been hiding her?” Carter asks Tucker.

“New York,” I answer for him. “What have you all got goin’ here?”

“Just poker night,” Tucker says. “We were playing our last hand anyway.”

“Don’t leave on account of me.” I pull a chair from another table and slide it in between Tucker and Cole. “I’d play a few hands with you, but I’ve used up all my cash getting here.”

“You really want to play?” Tucker asks. “You just showed up out of nowhere. Do you need to talk?”

“Nothing we can’t talk about over a game.” I shrug. “You taught me in high school, didn’t you? I should be able to figure it out.”

“Spot her, Medina,” Carter says. “You’ve got all our money.”

I see a familiar glint in Carter’s eyes—a shark spotting a minnow. As for Tucker having everyone’s money, it looks to me like Carter’s got a pretty big pile for himself.

“Yeah, Tucker,” I say, bumping his shoulder with mine, “spot me.”

Tucker passes the cards to Logan. “You can deal.” Then he turns his gaze on me. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course. I just miss you, and the spring-summer fashion season is closing out. Great time for a break. And since I’ve never been here, I decided a visit was long overdue.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Tucker asks.

Logan tosses cards to everyone, and I feel the weight of his stare, but I stay focused on the table or Tucker.

“I couldn’t surprise you that way, could I?” I pick up one of Tucker’s poker chips. “What are these worth?”

He gives me the monetary denomination of each chip and slides a pile worth fifty bucks toward me.

“Thanks. I’ll pull cash from my bank tomorrow. Too bad there’s no system to bet off an ATM card.” I look up. “There isn’t, is there?”

The guys give me a you-silly-girl chuckle.

When I reach for my cards, I purposely knock the chips over. Once I see I’ve got a hand full of absolutely nothing, I set my cards down faceup on the table to straighten the chips.

Tucker’s grinning. “You’re supposed to keep these hidden.”

“Oh, right.”

He tosses my cards back to Logan, who deals me a new hand, and I end up with a much better spread.

Everyone takes stock of their cards. Tucker glances at his before putting them down and focusing on me. “Did you fly in today? Rent a car at the airport? I wish you’d told me. I would have picked you up.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.” When it’s my turn to add chips, I stare at the pile, then glance around the table. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Carter gives me a quick lesson, and I toss in a few chips to the pile.

“Man, it’s good to see you.” Tucker’s smiling at me, and the cold night melts away.

I love this guy so much. No one could have asked for a better brother. Though, he sure could have gotten a better sister. I’ve failed miserably in that arena. Among so many others.

I squeeze his shoulder. “It’s good to see you too. Sorry it’s been so long.”

“How long are you staying?” he asks.

“Maybe a couple of weeks.”

“Maybe?” Tucker says. “That’s…”

“Vague,” Cole offers.

“Cryptic,” Carter says.

“Mysterious,” Royal adds.

“Cryptic is the same thing as mysterious, dope,” Carter teases.

“Okay, then…” He’s thinking hard, and his lack of verbal sparring with these men tells me he’s probably even younger than he looks. And he looks twelve. “Indefinite.”

The guys laugh and rib him over the lame description.

The last time I saw Tucker, he’d flown to New York for Christmas about four years ago. I borrowed a high-priced Manhattan apartment from an investment banker who frequented my blackjack table at the New York Poker Club—just one of the many moonlighting gigs that kept me in a shitty walk-up in the Bronx while I waited to break into the upper echelon of the fashion world. The guy used the stunning apartment as a hookup pad and really didn’t want that information shared. Especially not with his wife. So, he eagerly granted me the use of the apartment for the week Tucker visited.

I never did break into the fashion industry, but I felt like Cinderella that week, showing Tucker all the amazing parts of New York as if I really belonged there. We wandered through the Upper East Side shopping district, ate in Soho, scouted the amazing East Village neighborhood. We also did the touristy things like the Statue of Liberty and Rockefeller Center to see the iconic Christmas tree.

One of the very best weeks of my life, for sure. I’m struck by how pathetic that is—the best week of my life was a visit from my brother where I lied through my teeth and pretended to be something I’m not. Nor would ever be, as it turned out.

I lose the first three hands while I try to catch up with Cole, but end up fielding all kinds of questions from Carter and Royal about New York and the fashion industry.

I’m having a hard time addressing the questions without lying, something that has always come so easily to me. Only now, sitting beside my amazing brother and his amazing friends who are literal heroes every day of their lives, do I find the lies drying up. Somehow, it feels deeply wrong to lie to such real, selfless men. And I’m so over trying to be someone I’m just not.

Now, Tucker breaks into the questions to ask one of his own. “What’s going on?”

“If you must know,” I say with extra melodramatic flair, “my company merged with another, and the job they offered me in the switch wasn’t one I wanted. So I’m in between gigs at the moment.”

The whole truth is my company did merge with another—a year ago. And they did offer me another position that I wasn’t interested in—but I took it anyway because the fashion industry in New York isn’t just cutthroat, it’s decapitating. And I am also between gigs at the moment. No one needs to know that none of those facts relate to the other or that it doesn’t explain why I’m here.

“Is that good or bad?” Tucker asks.

“I was ready to make a change.” A change from the fashion rat race where I was pigeonholed into assistants’ positions and odd jobs that barely paid minimum wage. Assistant merchandiser, assistant stylist, assistant editor, assistant inventory manager. And finally, the one assistant position that really was a step up in the industry—assistant designer. The one I quit all my other odd jobs for. The one I lost after just a couple of months.

It really was the death knell for me in New York. The fact that it happened within weeks of my five-year self-imposed deadline for making it in this industry just made the decision to leave a little easier.

When I find Tucker giving me a skeptical look, I say, “It’s good. And don’t worry, I’ve been getting offers from a bunch of other places. I’ll have an incredible new job in a week, which is why I want to spend this time with you. New jobs are always demanding. Have to prove yourself, you know?”

“Oh, how well I know,” Royal mutters, making the guys laugh.

“So, catch me up on things here.” I start with Cole and learn he’s with Natalie, a woman who was married to Evan. I imagine Cole took a beating for claiming another firefighter’s wife even if she was a widow. Cole and Evan were best friends growing up. That couldn’t have been easy on either Cole or Natalie. I admire the dedication required to overcome that kind of judgment.

I make sure I win only one out of the next four hands while I get to know Royal and Carter. The two men have been with the team roughly the same amount of time, and there can’t be more than one official probie, so while Carter was teased early on about his probie status, he came to the station older than Royal and with more experience, which nailed Royal with the official title. A title he’ll keep until the next new hire.

I glance at Logan, who hasn’t said a word, but he’s soaked in everything that’s been said. “I see you’re still the strong, silent type.”

I get a smile, but there’s a lot going on behind those eyes. I can’t help but remember the look in his eyes the last time I saw him, shirtless, jeans riding low, hips deep between my thighs, hands in my hair, so much raw desire and affection in his expression as he gave me an unforgettable and amazing first time. It’s been fodder for fantasies ever since I learned most men’s A game is Logan’s Z game.

But that was a lifetime ago. Before I got a heavy dose of idiocy and desperation. Before I betrayed my best friend—Logan’s sister—and left town without saying goodbye to anyone.

To be fair, it’s not like I broke Logan’s heart. We weren’t dating at the time, not even into each other. We were always just friends. And, as friends, we made a pact that if we were both still virgins by the time we turned eighteen, we’d be each other’s firsts.

Something shifted between us that night. Something unexpected and terrifying—at least for me, and romantic feelings weren’t part of the deal. My mom’s relationships cured me of ever wanting one for myself, and Logan’s parents sure hadn’t imprinted anything good on his heart.

I learned young that love isn’t forever. Nor is it good or sweet, like in the movies. And that men you thought you could trust can turn on you and act like someone you’ve never seen before.

I suddenly need a break from this. From the questions and the curiosity and the man with the thick black hair and bright green eyes, who’s even better looking now. His jaw has squared up, his features sharpened, those naturally straight white teeth still gleam. He’s almost too pretty to look at. But it was the least the Lord could do after giving him such hideous parents.

He’s checking me out in a way that makes it seem like he can see through my farce, which is ridiculous given how different we are now. But I’m starting to wonder if I’ve changed all that much from the selfish, desperate girl who left here.

As if to prove it, the forty-eight cents in my jeans’ pocket takes on weight, reminding me that I’m in a similarly desperate situation as I was ten years ago. So I fall back on old skills and make quick work out of getting the guys to toss money into the pot before I demolish them with a royal flush. A girl’s got to take care of herself.

“How exciting. I never win.” That much is true. You can’t win if you don’t play, and I don’t play. I just deal. Or I used to.

I reach for my winnings, and the sleeves of my sweater slide up my arms. It takes me a second to realize my bruises have slipped into view, and I hurriedly pull in the cash and tug the sleeves back to my wrists. My heart is skipping over that slip, but I’ve learned how to hold myself together through almost anything.

Breathing deep to settle my nerves, I separate fifty dollars’ worth of chips and slide them toward Tucker’s dwindling pile, leaving me close to two hundred bucks.

Maybe I ought to just accept fate and embrace my future as a hustler.

“Thanks for spotting me, Tuck,” I say. “If someone could cash me out, that would be great. I’m going to see if the kitchen here is as amazing as the rest of this place.”

I wander through the restaurant, admiring the clean masculine lines of the architecture, the heavy furniture, the high ceilings, above which is the loft where Tucker’s living.

I hear one of the guys say, “I think we’ve just been hustled,” and I’m grinning as I push into the kitchen.

Of course, the kitchen is just as nice as the rest of the place. Stainless steel countertops, a huge center island, Wolf ranges, equipment neatly lined up or tucked away, shelves of pantry goods. I turn to face the massive industrial refrigerator, and my stomach growls. I’m going on eight hours without anything to eat. Forty-eight cents wouldn’t even get me a decent candy bar.

My cell buzzes in my back pocket with an incoming call. I already know who it is. No one else would be trying to contact me. I pull it from my pocket and send the call to voicemail without looking at the screen. A flurry of texts come in, but I ignore those too.

I have more pressing matters, specifically an angry stomach. I leave my cell on the counter and pull open one massive refrigerator door. I’m greeted with shelf after lighted shelf of meats and cheeses and fruit and—

I gasp and reach for a pie with a clear plastic cover. There are a few slices missing. It’s chocolate on the bottom and whipped cream on the top, and I’m drooling by the time I find a fork.

I return to the fridge, holding the door open with my shoulder to remind me I have to put it back. Then I load up the fork and open wide to get all the luscious goodness into my mouth at once. It’s sweet and light and chocolatey with a graham cracker crust that melts in my mouth.

I’ve died and gone to heaven.