Alicia Martinez is determined to keep a low profile. After a tough year, she deletes all of her social media and retreats to the small coastal town of St Andrews in the hopes of starting over - and avoiding her tumultuous past.
Oliver Hogarth is a...
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Alicia swiped on her lipstick.
It was an almost garishly red color, the exact shade of candied apples and the double decker buses that whizzed around London. Greg had always hated it, which had only made her love it more in recent months. She smacked her lips together.
From her bedroom door, Hattie whistled.
"Look at you!"
Alicia did a little twirl. She was wearing the red dress tonight, and the slit rode up dangerously high. Her dark hair was pulled up in a ponytail. She had even put on heels, because what the hell? They rarely went for cocktails; she might as well embrace it.
"Oh, my god." Hattie rushed forward, gripping her chin. "You're even wearing mascara. It's a miracle."
"Oh, get off," Alicia grumbled, swatting her. "You'll ruin the make-up."
Hattie grinned. She was dressed in a more modest pink number, her gold bangles glittering as she adjusted her purse. Alicia snatched up her keys.
"Remind me what we're celebrating again?"
"Burning this town to the ground." Hattie looped their arms together. "And looking fabulous while doing it."
They stepped outside. St Andrews was a sea of black shadows tonight; laughter drifted out of well-lit pubs, accompanied by the faint trickling of the fountain. Students sometimes swore that they could hear the ghostly wheels of carriages rattling along the streets, although Alicia didn't hear any tonight. The only immediate noise was the click-click of their heels on the cobblestones.
Alicia glanced wistfully at a pub; god, she was ready for a drink.
The shop had been dull today; Steve had assured her that business would pick up with the Links tournament on the horizon, but all of the tourists seemed to be swarming to the golf shop across the street. As a result, Steve had spent most of the afternoon scowling out the window, cursing under his breath.
"Ah'm going ta bash their heeds in," he had grumbled. "Ye have ma word."
Alicia had hung in there for the day, but by four o'clock, she had been ready to do some head bashing herself; the thought of red wine had been the only thing getting her through. She frowned as they passed the clock tower, heading towards the outskirts of town. "Where are we going?"
"It's just a little further."
"Hattie," Alicia said, exasperated. "There's nothing this far down."
Well, except for The Iguana: an underground nightclub, notorious for its sticky floors, cheap drinks, and toilets stained with all manner of bodily fluids. And Alicia wasn't nearly drunk enough to go there yet.
She frowned. "Hattie?"
"You'll see."
Her friend dragged her towards the golf course. For a bizarre moment, Alicia thought Hattie might suggest they break into the members-only club house and filch a drink from the bar, but no; they were walking towards the sea.
