Free This Sky by Autumn Doughton

study the pale skin between her shoulder blades. She lifts her head then and says something I can’t make out. Before I know it’s happening, she’s sucked forward, enveloped into the throng of people in front of the bar.
        My lashes lower fast and hard, snapping me out of my trance, but it’s already too late.
        The girl is gone.
        My stomach clenches and a strange sensation spreads across my chest, hot and cold all at once. It takes a second for me to place it and when I do, I scratch my head and suck in a breath. Disappointment.
        Hashtag: FUCK.
        Do you feel it?
        Trying to banish the feeling with a hard shake, I pull my keys from my back pocket and let myself in through the oversized metal security door. I check my watch one more time before hiking across the hall and calling out a murky hello to Tish, who is bunked down in her office doing paperwork. I duck through the kitchen, grabbing a few carrot sticks from one of the prep stations to get the taste of peppers and mustard out of my mouth. Micah, a lanky figure standing over the grill, nods and asks me about the waves tonight. I tell him about the south swells predicted for Trestles and Del Mar over the weekend then I’m pushing my way through the swinging door that leads to the main floor of Aunt Zola’s.
        Music, voices, tinkling glass, the chime of metal on metal. I was right about the crowd. We’re so full that it’s stifling in here.
         When I step behind the bar, Jamie greets me with a rushed Thank God .
         “Miss me?”
         “Vincent and Margo are handling the high tops,” he says, pouring an ounce of well vodka into a cup and topping it with soda water and a squeeze of lime. “I’m going to let you deal with the bachelorette party out on the patio.”
         “You shouldn’t have,” I say, my eyes scanning the perimeter for raised hands. Hell, who am I kidding? I’m checking for the girl in the blue dress.
        “They’re getting wasted and frisky. One of them just came up here and asked if she could take a picture of my penis for some sort of checklist.” Then he’s directing me around the bar.
        “Two Bicardi and Cokes. Highball!”
        “One Kahlua shooter!”
        “Bourbon. Neat.”
         Orders are shouted. Drinks are mixed and poured. Money is exchanged.
        I ignore the ache in my body and keep my head down as I work. Stoli and pineapple. Bud Light in a glass. A line of pickleback shots.
        “Bartender!”
        The impatient demand pulls my head up.
        Bartender.
        This is who I am now.
        Forget about Landon Young, rising surf star.
        He doesn’t live here anymore.

CHAPTER FIVE
     
     
    Gemma
     
    At night, the reedy streets crisscrossing the boardwalk seem to be alive.
        Electric lights spin overhead, their scattered neon trails painting intricate red and green patterns on my skin. People are everywhere—weaving past a small food cart at the end of the block selling chili dogs and fried cheese sticks. They spill from shadowy club entrances to the sidewalk, trickling into the street in disorganized lines. I see them melt away—almost liquefying as they slide into stopped cabs, move smoothly through shadowed entryways and sweep around the corners like particles of dust.
        I step over the curb, stop, tuck my hair behind one ear and close my eyes. A soft wind gusts through a wide gap between two one-story buildings, carrying the tangy zing of cloves and cooking meat to my nostrils.
        “You coming?”
        A question. Lightly asked—more curious than annoyed.
         My eyelids flutter. The lights are back, coming into focus. Julie is watching me, concern knitting her face.
        “Yeah. Sorry, I needed a minute.”
         Then we’re moving through the crowd with Smith and Claudia in the lead. They seem to know everyone here, including the bouncers at the door.
        I smack