Without Scars by Ayla Jones Page A

but I tried to stay out of the liquor store when it wasn’t therapy related.
    Brody set a plate in the sink and made a polite reintroduction as he shook my hand. I didn’t remember much about him from Coco’s, but Deacon was hard to forget. Charlie told me that after I left that night, the security threatened to toss Deacon out for taking off his shirt, dancing on the furniture, and irritating other patrons by trying to mosh on the dance floor.
    “Chick from Coco’s , ” Deacon said, giving me a chin raise, his pink-tinged eyes struggling to focus.
    Oh, wait. Correction: they found my boobs and ass just fine.
    “Nikki,” I said. “And, thank you, my eyes are lovely.” Charlie snickered.
    Deacon was wearing a shirt with all the letters of the alphabet, except one, an arrow pointing down, and a message that read, “The only D you need.” He looked away from me momentarily to rip the plastic cover off the pie, pull a fork from a drawer, and dig it deep into the middle. Just looking at him and taking in his bedheady dark hair and soft brown eyes, his perma-smirk, bro attire, and hearing about his devil-may-care attitude, I could tell he was the type I’d partied with once.
    “Uh…so that wasn’t for you…” Charlie hooked a finger into the pie pan and slid it across the counter away from Deacon.
    “You friend-zoned Charlie, right?” Deacon asked me. He licked the fork clean. “I would have put you in my phone as ‘Never Fucking Answer.’ He’s too pussy to do that, though.”
    “You’re such a goddamn idiot.” Brody laughed awkwardly.
    “He is…” Charlie said, a flash of annoyance crossing his face.
    Deacon frowned. “What the hell? Y’all taking a vote?”
    Charlie wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You remember Douchebag, don’t you?” he said.
    “You’ve heard my name screamed out enough through the walls to know it’s not Douchebag,” Deacon retorted. Charlie’s expression darkened further. I knew some friendships were a back-and-forth of constant insults. But I could sense that the relationship between these two was actually strained.
    “Oh, I’m sorry. Nikki, this is Are You Sure It’s In? I think that’s what the last one called you.” Charlie cocked his head at the front door. “Bye.”
    Once they were gone his mood shifted. He stuck a USB drive into the back of his fancy television and used the remote to pull up a video. I did a quick, nosy stroll around the place while pretending to check out the art when he went into the kitchen. The past few weeks, we’d been all over Miami: hole-in-the-walls, movie theaters, chic Ocean Drive restaurants, and smoke-choked bars. I had been looking forward to seeing his place. He lived in a neighborhood that was undergoing major changes. His modern building (and the adjacent Whole Foods) stuck out kinda mockingly aside seedy-looking motels, a liquor store, and a few little bodegas. The apartment was gorgeous, though, with views of a small garden and a glimmering pool from the balcony. All of this was probably why he had two roommates.
    My cellphone buzzed.
    Darla Lyons: I’m trying to reach Nicole Johnson. This is Darla from SCB. I hope this is still your number. I’ll be in Miami this summer. It’s still a few months away but I’d love to see you. Please let me know if this is you.
    Darla was a first soloist who was promoted to principal after I lost my contract with SCB. We hadn’t talked since I left Los Angeles. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was for having a conversation with someone whose hair I’d thrown up in and whom I had drunkenly, um, called a stupid fucking cunt after I lost my job. I didn’t think you could just send a card.
    “Do you want anything? Water?” Charlie asked from the kitchen. I smiled. The beverage offering to me at people’s homes was always very short. “Pie? I’ve got pie.”
    I laughed. “I’m fine, thank you.”
    He plopped down on the couch and watched me with amused curiosity. “You