by Shandi Boyes
“Where’s Noah?” His bandmates are great guys, but even when they’re not on stage, the absence of their lead singer is highly noticeable.
“Being a soft cock.” Slater dumps my bag on one of three white leather sofas before moving to a full-size bar in the corner of the room. “He went to visit Emily. Left us a note.”
Marcus hands me the note Slater is referring to.
Morning, Fuckers,
Gone to visit my girl.
Be back sometime tomorrow.
Noah
After snatching the note from my hand, Slater replaces it with a crystal glass full of brown liquid. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have his bachelor party on his behalf.” He clinks his glass against mine. “Bottoms up.”
I hesitate. I’m not much of a hard liquor drinker, but what have I got to lose? Everything I’ve ever wanted is slipping from my grasp, so why not get rip-roaring drunk with friends in a strange city?
What’s the worst that could happen?
The next morning, I wake up to my phone hollering and my head thumping. I want to say that’s the worst of it. Unfortunately, it isn’t. I feel like I’ve swallowed a dozen razor blades, and my mouth is as dry as the Sahara.
As I scrub sleep from my eyes, my eyes trail over the room. Slater is sleeping upright on a chair; he has a pretty blonde draped across his bare thighs, mercifully covering his cock from my view. I’m sprawled on the loveseat—thankfully solo—and Nick and Marcus are nowhere to be seen.
When my phone hollers again, I swipe my sweaty finger across the screen, silencing its ear-piercing screams. It's not ringing. My alarm is going off. For some stupid fucking reason, I chose to fly home at six in the morning. For what purpose? None, other than I'm an idiot who didn't want to miss the training session Lola and I attend every Tuesday at Hank's gym. I booked my flights before our argument, and with it being so close to peak holiday season, I wasn't able to change them—not that I would have.
As Slater would say, “I’m a soft cock.”
Gingerly, I snag my cargo shorts off the floor and head to the bathroom, my steps shaky. If the taxi the concierge scheduled last night arrives on time, I have five minutes to get my ass downstairs or risk missing my flight.
My eyes bulge out of my head when I accidentally bump into a large-breasted lady on my way into the bathroom. She’s wearing nothing but a sheer pair of panties. By sheer, I mean they leave nothing to the imagination.
“Morning, Jacob.” After planting a kiss to the edge of my mouth, she staggers into the living room to pass out on the chair I just woke up on.
Who the fuck is she, and how does she know my name?
Although I’d love nothing more than a few minutes to work through my confusion, I don’t have time. It’s 5:05 AM. I don’t even have time to scrape the roadkill off my tongue, let alone work out why a practically naked girl knows my name.
After throwing on my pants and some random shirt I find on the ground, I grab my duffel bag off the floor then bolt to the hotel entrance, where I slide into my waiting taxi. Morning traffic is light, meaning I make it to the gate of my flight by the skin of my teeth.
“Sorry.”
The flight attendant either misses my apology, or she doesn't care for excuses. She snatches my ticket out of my hand before gesturing for me to enter the gangway. “You're the last to board.”
As I flop into my seat, my phone dings. Once again, it isn’t a message. It’s Facebook notifying me that Noah tagged me in six photos. With my lips pursed, I slide my index finger across the screen of my phone. I’m just about to log into my Facebook app when I hear someone cough above me.
Lifting my gaze, I'm met with the same narrowed pair of eyes that were glaring at me minutes ago. “Please turn off your phone. We’re about to depart.” She refuses to leave my side until my cell is switched off and stored in my pocket.
“Thank you.” Even though she continues her checks around the cabin, her eyes remained planted on me. If I so much as move for my phone, she'll be on my ass like white on rice.
The entire flight home, I rack my brain, trying to recall any events that occurred last night.
Six hours of pondering, and I’m still fucking clueless. It’s nothing but a complete blur.
As I stroll down the departure gate of my flight, I switch on my phone. I can't see the flight attendant, but I'm certain her eyes are still on me as I dial my voicemail to check the two messages I received during my flight. She kept a close watch on me all trip. Usually, I'd savor the attention, but today it just feels creepy. There's only one girl's attention I want. That person doesn't wear wings on the breast of her jacket; she wears them on her hip.
My race to baggage claim slows when a chirpy voice sounds down the line. “Hey, Jacob, it’s Nat. Where did you run off to this morning? Call me.”
Who the fuck is Nat? And how the fuck did she get my number?
My questions are left unanswered when my second message plays. “Jacob, it’s Ryan. Call me back. It’s urgent.” His voice is rattled, like he’s close to crying. There’s only been one time I’ve heard him like this. It was when Noah’s brother Chris killed himself...
Oh fuck.
With my heart in my throat, I scroll through my contacts for Ryan's number. My hands are shaking so much, I scroll past the R's three times before I realize why I can't find Ryan's name. I've never had a reason to use it, so I never stored his number in my phone.
As my fingers rake through my hair, I try to think of another way I can get his number. It showed up as private on my cell, so that won’t work. I don’t see it being listed, so that’s off the table as well, but there’s got to be a way. I just have to find it.
Think, Jacob, think.
Five seconds later, a light bulb switches on in my head. Ryan wrote his cell number on the business card he gave me when I was arrested. He said if Callum tried to contact me, I should call him.
Ignoring the tremors making the floor beneath my feet shudder, I yank my wallet out of my pocket to dig through the business cards stored there. A sigh spills from my lips when I locate Ryan’s tattered card a few seconds later. While bolting to the airport’s short-term parking lot, I dial his number. He answers on the very first ring.
“Ryan Carter.”
“Ryan, it’s Jacob. Is Lola okay?” The fear in my voice is undeniable. I'm beyond petrified that Callum has hurt her again.
“Lola is fine.”
My sprint slows to a jog. My heart is still fitfully beating, but knowing Lola is uninjured is a relief.
My gratitude doesn’t linger for long. “It’s Noah. He isn’t good.”
I start running all over again.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Lola
With a huff, I glance at my alarm clock for the tenth time the past hour. I’ve barely slept a wink the past three days. Insomnia drives me nuts in general, but this latest case could have been avoided if I’d just listen to one of the many pleas my heart has been issuing since Jacob stormed out of my apartment.
Alas, Jacob doesn’t call me a hellion for no reason. My brain could be getting sucked out by a zombie, but I’d still deny that we’re in an acropolis because I don’t believe in zombies. That’s how stubborn I am.
Rolling over, I shift my view from faded painted walls to a water-stained roof. My apartment is anything but glamorous, but it's mine. I saved enough of my wages the past two years to put down a reasonable deposit on my own little place. It’s nothing flashy, but it’s a start, and you’ve got to start somewhere, right?
When my head lolls to the side, my brain screams at me: Don’t do it, Lola. You’ll only get hurt, but with my heart as rebellious as its smarter counterpart, I don’t listen.
Lifting my pillow, I mash it into my face. I’m not trying to suffocate myself—much to the dismay of every local in this town—I’m breathing in Jacob’s aftershave. We had a handful of nighttime sleepovers the past three months, so his Hugo Boss aftershave is embedded in the pillo
wcase. Even changing my sheets didn’t fix the injustice. I can smell him on every surface of my apartment. On my sofa. In my bed.
On my skin.
This kills me to admit, but I miss him more than I thought possible. I miss his laugh, his smell, and the way he looks at me like I'm clever, even when I'm being stupid. He taught me how to play poker here after he set up the two-seater dining table I brought for us to eat at, and he fixed the busted pipe under my sink before showing me a much more effective way to get wet in the bathroom. This apartment was supposed to be my humble abode, but so much of the space reflects Jacob. He even has his silly vinyl records stacked up in the corner of my room. He says they’re some of his most valued possessions, yet here they are, dumped on my bedroom floor.
Ugh! Maybe I should just call him and tell him what happened with Flynn? That doesn’t mean I forgive him for questioning me, but it might help me get some sleep...and perhaps help us move past this little glitch. I don't like this. I hate relying on anyone, but it also sucks not being anyone's crutch.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I snatch my cell phone off the bedside table. My plan to right the wrongs I made flies out the window when I realize it’s only five AM. I can’t call him at this time, no matter how desperate I am to hear his voice.
After dropping my cell on my table, I wiggle down the mattress until the duvet is covering every inch of me. Now matters are worse. Jacob’s scent is stronger down here. It’s so rich, if I close my eyes, I can imagine the grin he gives me every morning when I wake up to discover him watching me. It’s that stupid lopsided grin he does just before he causes trouble. It’s super cute, nearly as handsome as him.
Groaning at the lovesick idiot I’m becoming, I throw off the bedding and make my way to my small, outdated kitchen. Coffee has always been my savior, and today won’t be any different.
Once I have a strong cup of brew in my hands, I flop onto the springless chair in my living room. A ghost of a smile cracks onto my lips. I joke that my sofa is springless, but in reality, its springs worked perfectly fine before Jacob and I broke them. We also broke my bed—three times.
Enjoy this, because I doubt it will happen again anytime soon, but my first impressions of Jacob were wrong. He knows how to fuck. Not once have I left unsatisfied.
There, I said it, I was wrong...mostly.
Just because he fucks well doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to make love. He just does whatever makes me happy. Fucking makes me happy.
This, though, the dreary TV shows on at this time of the morning... they’re nothing but a mood killer. No wonder birthrates are on the decline. Who wants to stay up watching this crap while feeding a baby who didn’t quit crying all night long? Not me.
After turning off the TV, I scurry into my room to grab my phone. Facebook is full of people pretending to have a perfect life, but it’s a good diversion for boredom.
Like a perfectly timed skit, the first image that pops up on my wall is Jenni breastfeeding baby Jasper. She looks tired, but I can admit she also looks happy. She’s smiling and giving the peace sign to the camera. I like her photo before I continue scrolling. I scan through multiple posts from “friends” who were devastated that yesterday was Monday. Most of my real-life friends went to college before getting desk jobs they all hate. I’ve never understood how that’s considered living. If you hate what you do every day, why continue doing it? My bartender job isn’t flashy, but I enjoy it, and I’d rather be underpaid than turn up to a job I hate every day.
As I’m about to put down my phone, Facebook notifies me that there are new posts in my feed. When I click the link, it takes me to some photos Noah tagged Jacob in. The first couple of images look innocent, but that becomes null and void when I open the entire album. Jacob is tucking dollar bills into a stripper’s panties. That can be expected; he was at a bachelor party, but it’s the pictures where he isn’t front and center that are the most concerning.
In the background of one photo, a woman with long blonde hair is sitting on his lap. I could assume he’s getting a lap dance, but the more I scroll, the more apparent it becomes that isn’t the case. The same girl pops up in multiple photos taken throughout the night. If the timestamp is anything to go by, it was a good eight hours.
In the very last image, there are no heads, but I recognize the lower half of Jacob’s body. He loves his cargo shorts, no matter how much I despise them. The same girl who was sitting in his lap earlier is crouched between his legs. She’s in the process of lowering his zipper. She has a look on her face, one I know all too well. It’s the look all women get when they realize Jacob’s cock is as big as the rest of him.
The grip on my phone tightens as a long growl grunts from my lips. Here I am moping in my apartment like a loser who can’t get a date, when he’s out doing anything or anyone he wants.
With anger strangling my senses, I type Jacob’s name into the search bar at the top of my Facebook feed. I’m acting like a child, but euphoria dashes through me when I click the block button on his profile. Just like changing your status from "in a relationship" to "it’s complicated" sparks the rumor mill, unfriending someone is the equivalent of giving them the one-finger salute in public.
I sit cross-legged on my bed for the next several minutes, trying in vain to reel in my anger. I want to hurt someone, but the person deserving of my wrath is in Los Angeles. With the early hour in mind and more adrenaline than I know what to do with, I dart out of my apartment. I'm so frustrated, I don't even take a second to pat myself on the back for getting ready in under ten minutes.
With traffic light, it only takes me forty-five minutes to get where I'm going. My anger didn't reduce in the slightest, though. I maybe even more angry now than I was earlier. Not even the poor rusty hinges on Hank's Gym door survive my rage. They buckle when I throw open the door before stomping to the bag hanging mid-space.
“Good morning, pretty lady, what are you doing here so early?”
I ditch my handbag, snag a pair of gloves off the rack, then spin to face Hank. “I really need to punch something, figured what better place to do that than at a boxing gym?”
Hank’s brows furrow as he scans my face. Once he finishes his vigorous assessment, he jerks his chin to the ring. “You don’t need to work the bag. You need to hit something real, so how about we put your frustration to good use?”
After tying my gloves, he dons his own pair.
“What are you doing?”
“You want to box, so we’re going to box.” He uses his teeth to tie his gloves before holding apart the ropes for me. When I hesitate, he smiles. “Don't worry; I won't hit you for real.”
I climb through the ropes before cocking my hip. “I’m not worried about me. You, on the other hand...” My arched brow talks on my behalf.
Hank’s loud laugh rumbles right through me. “Bring it on.” He motions with his hands for me to move toward him.
I take on the fighting stance I’ve perfected over the past year and a half before raising my hands to protect my face. A proud smile stretches across Hank’s face a mere second before his fist sails past my head. I bobbed down in just enough time to miss his left hook.
“Good. Now back on your toes.”
For the first few strikes, I hesitate. Hank isn’t wearing the protective gear he usually does when we box, so I’m worried I’ll hurt him.
It doesn’t take me long to realize the error of my ways. He confidently blocks Jacob’s hits, much less my puny ones. With that in mind, I put more effort into our battle. More times than not, Hank sweeps his hand in front of himself, making me completely miss my mark. For the occasional one that connects, they either land on his glove-covered fist or his torso. I’m aiming for his head, so I’ve got nothing to brag about, although the gleam in Hank’s eyes says otherwise. He’s proud of me—and my anger is finally starting to dissipate.
By the time an hour has ticked by, I’m exhausted, and my lungs are burning. I lean my arms on top of my head b
efore sucking in big, jagged breaths. It takes several tedious minutes to get my heart rate back within safe levels.
Hank wipes away a trail of sweat running down his face with a white towel before tossing one to me. “Do you feel better?”
While glancing into his nearly black eyes, I nod.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
My head bob turns into a shake. I’m just now getting my anger under control, so I don’t want to bring it to the surface again. I also can’t breathe, much less speak.
“Alright. You know where I am if you need me. Until then, hit the showers. You stink.”
He noogies my head as he always does to Jacob before climbing out of the ring and making his way to his office. On my way to the locker rooms, I spot him through the crack in his office door. He’s not sorting paperwork like you’d expect any business owner to do when things are quiet. He’s folding blankets.
Upon noticing my curious glance, he musters up his best fake smile before closing his office door, barely blocking out the makeshift cot in the corner of his already cramped space.
Later that afternoon, when back in my apartment, I can’t stop thinking about Hank. Although he had everything packed up by the time I got out of the shower, what I saw can’t be denied. He’s living out of his office.
Is Jacob aware he uses his business premises as a home base? If so, why hasn’t he offered him an alternative solution? Jacob isn’t rolling in money, but the proceeds he gets fighting for Isaac would surely provide something more suitable than a concrete floor, wouldn’t it? And what about the money Isaac pays Hank to train Jacob, where’s that...?
Like a lightning strike brightening a dark sky, reality dawns. I’ve never paid a cent to use Hank’s gym—not one. I show up with Jacob and use his facilities without paying him a dime. How many other people do that as well?
Guilt makes itself known in my gut. I’ve been using Hank for months when he’s never been anything but kind to me.
