I saunter over to the table where the adjuncts have gathered and sit among them, a queen in an impromptu court. They look at me like they're freaking undergrads themselves. I might be the only Ph.D. at the table.
The waitress brings my drink, plus two plates: more of the won-tons, deep fried ravioli, and the chips.
"We didn't order yet," one of the adjuncts says.
"It's for her," the waitress indicates me.
"I didn't order that."
"Bartender sent it over. He says it's on him."
Twisting in my seat, I look back at Tyler. He gives me a nod, and I wonder, what the hell is he thinking? That's inappropriate.
If it's inappropriate I should have left as soon as I saw he was working here.
Doesn't matter. The fried ravioli are great! Fattening as hell, but great. I'll run longer tomorrow. I need to indulge myself more often. Speaking of indulgence, this is the best Moscow Mule I've ever had. I don't know what's Magnum about it, but the burn from the ginger beer and the cold from the ice are great and it goes down smooth.
"I'm really surprised to see you here," a girl at the table says. No, not a girl, an adjunct.
"Why's that?" I ask, stifling a chuckle.
"You kind of have a reputation on campus."
She looks at me doe-eyed with a watery expression and a little of Dr. Mills comes out.
"I could give a shit about my reputation. I don't set out to make anyone afraid of me. If they have a problem it's not with me, it's with my standards. Of course they're high. This isn't a grammar school."
This young'un, who works terrible hours for bad pay and probably doesn't realize her career is going nowhere (just like mine is) looks at me with patient understanding, like I'm some kind of Zen guru.
"Classroom management and the students' fees are for elementary ed majors. They're paying to be here, and I give them their money's worth."
Another adjunct, a boy, looks at me over his beer.
"You have no idea what she means by reputation, do you?"
"Eh?" I say. A waitress passes and I wiggle my empty mule mug at her. What's the holdup?
"Half the guys on campus want to bone you, Doc. There's a rumor that you're a biter."
"A what?”
The waitress brings me my next drink but taps my shoulder.
"Ma'am," she says, delicately. "This has to be the last one. The bartender has declined to serve you again."
I scowl at her. "What?"
"You've had a little much."
"I'm not drunk," I snarl, "I'm fine. Can't I have a little fun?"
The adjunct girl starts asking me questions, and I start telling her about my career, between pulls on my drink. If he poured this weak, I'm calling the Better Business Bureau. Cutting me off like I'm some kind of lightweight, who the hell does he think he is?
My audience listens, rapt. I almost catch myself telling them The Story, but stop, and sit there while they stare at me, the echoes playing out in my head as I stare into my empty mug, unable to remember when I drank it.
How could you do this to me, Bill?
How could I? Everything with you is your career, your career, your career, as if you'd have a career if I hadn't come along to take care of you and your kid—
I shove that thought out of my mind, violently. The world spins around me.
"Uh," I say to no one in particular, "I think I've been drinking."
One of the adjuncts tries to feed me pretzels, but I feel a song coming on. I start singing about a bottle of wine and then—
—wake up in my bed. Hamilton is curled up by my head, one paw extended from her round mass to rest on my hand. Great, now I'm getting romantic gestures from my cat. An odd smell wafts through the apartment, the smell of butter on a skillet. When I rise, I find myself in the same clothes I left the house in, bundled into bed in everything but my shoes, which sit neatly by the bedroom door.
I think there's someone here.
Cautiously, I move to the door and listen. Footsteps.
My throat is as tight as a stretched rope, I slide open the top drawer of my old chest of drawers and pull out my father's old .38 revolver, flick the cylinder open, and make sure it's loaded. Shooshing Hamilton with a finger to my lips, I creep to the bedroom door and swing it open.
Just as I step out, Tyler pours eggs from a mixing bowl into my frying pan.
"Good morn—JESUS CHRIST!"
"Calm down," I mutter, "I wasn't pointing it at you." I had it aimed at the ceiling.
I check it again and huff.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I demand.
"Cooking you breakfast, and I'm not leaving until you eat."
Horror sweeps through me. He's making me breakfast. “Did we...did I...?”
I can taste vomit and roll my tongue around my mouth.
"Why yes, you puked your guts out, and yes, I held your hair."
"What are you doing here?"
"Well," he says, "if you must know..."
Chapter Three
Tyler
Dr. Mills waves her empty copper mug around again angrily and loudly, demanding to know why she's been cut off. The group of people she's sitting with, all strangers to me, are looking at her with a mixture of awe, terror, and cruel amusement. This story will get out.
Sighing, I step out from behind the bar and shoo Stephanie away.
"I cut you off, Ma'am," I explain, trying to talk to her in neutral tones, as if we were total strangers. I can't keep sending other people over here to do this.
Yeah, we started on a bad foot, but I can't let her humiliate herself in public or go wandering around in this state.
"You've had too much to drink," I add.
"Says who?" she snaps.
"Says me."
She lurches to her feet, almost falls, and on pure instinct, I catch her. She falls naturally into my arms, as if we were dancing and I dipped her. She lets out a slurred "whoa" and stares at me with her gray eyes, her cheeks flushed from booze and embarrassment. She still stumbles when I lift her to her feet, swaying drunkenly. Her hands linger, sweeping across my chest as a slack look comes over her face and she stares at me.
"Easy now," I say.
I grab her purse and lead her to the bar. She follows, as meek as a kitten. I can practically hear the booze sloshing around in her skull. I should have cut her off after the third or fourth, not let her get blackout drunk. She's going to forget a big chunk of tonight. I know from experience. I lean her against the bar rather than guide her onto a stool, for fear she'll tumble off and crack her skull on the floor.
"What are you doing?" she says, as I root around in her purse.
"Making sure you cover your tab so the owner doesn't call the cops on you."
After I run one of her cards through the stripe reader, I have her sign the slip, stopping her from scrawling something unintelligible and far too generous on the line for tips. I just scrawl a blank line for her and make sure she's only paying the tab itself. I stuff some cash from my wallet in the tip jar on her behalf.
"Stay here and don't move," I tell her.
Quickly, I duck into the back and find the manager, tell her I'm clocking out an hour early, I have a personal emergency. She eyes me with annoyance but nods. After I punch my card, I find Doc Mills trying to cajole another waitress into getting her a drink.
Taking her arm, I lead her outside.
"Yeesh, it's cold out here," she complains.
When she's drunk, a little bit of a Southern accent slips into her words, and it's astonishingly sexy. Here comes out as heah.
"Did you drive?" I ask. "I'll get you a ride if you need one."
"Nah, I walked. "I live on the far side of campus. It's not far, see ya."
She starts walking off and I hurry after her. I can't let her wander around alone like this, she might stroll into the bad side of town or walk into the lake. She looks at me.
"What are you doing?" she demands.
"Walking you
back to your place. Are you sure it isn't far?"
"Yup, it's five blocks straight up State Street, then turn onto Governor's Place. It's the big red Victorian on the corner. Why am I telling you this?"
"I asked nicely. Come on, we'll get you home."
"I hope I have my keys."
"Me too," I sigh.
She drunk-walks along and I have to stop her from crossing the street against traffic, twice. Once we're past campus, she stumbles.
"My head hurts really bad. I need to sit down."
"Don't do that," I sigh.
She ignores me and sits on a brick wall.
"I think I'll just sit here a minute."
"Doc—"
She lurches to the side. Once again, I stop her from fracturing her skull and scoop her up. The romantic in me, and believe it or not there is a shriveled, long-abused romantic in me, wants to carry her in my arms newlywed-style to satisfy my sense of aesthetics, but the easier and safer way to carry another person is a fireman's carry. I pull her over my shoulder and stand up, surprised by how light she is.
"Please don't puke on my back," I mumble. "Please don't puke on my back."
I find the right place, it's the only red brick Victorian on the block, and fish around in her purse for her keys. A little tab unlocks the front door. A tenant directory says MILLS-401. Great.
After hauling her up four flights of stairs, with her still on my shoulder, I might as well go all the way.
No, I should plop her down, unlock the door, push her in, and go back to my life, and hope she doesn't remember that I was even here. I don't owe this woman anything and she's probably already planning to make the next four months of my life as hellish as possible. If she realizes that I had any involvement in a public humiliation like this, she'll chew my face off.
Sigh.
Call me what you want. Cad, player, rake, jerk, airheaded meatbrained jock. Whatever I am, I am not going to leave a helpless woman to fall out her window or choke to death on her own vomit. Already frustrated at how stupid I can be over a girl in a bad place, I carry her inside.
She's not a girl, I remind myself.
Her apartment is small, heavy with books, and by the looks of things, she's turned her dining room into a home office and just eats sitting on her couch in front of the TV, which is pretty damned sad, if you ask me. Some odds and ends lying around make it look like she has a kid, but the kid is not here.
She does have a very affectionate cat, who seems to sense the gravity of the situation as I carry Mills into the cramped bedroom and lay her on the bed. She flops down and rolls onto her back, legs pressed together and twisted to one side.
Every instinct I have says leave now, but I can't stop staring at her. Even in a ratty sweatshirt and old threadbare jeans, she looks almost angelic with her long dark hair fanned out over the bed. I need to keep her turned on her side, in case the unfortunate happens, so I take her gingerly by the shoulder and roll her, positioning her sideways.
Her eyes flutter open. She's really gorgeous in profile. Earlier, she looked severe, sharp, vulpine, like a snarling animal. Now she's vulnerable, soft in her old hoodie and jeans. I feel like an intruder and I feel responsible for her at the same time.
She lifts her head and looks at me and she says, "I have to puke."
With the coordination that only a very drunk person can summon to run for the throne, she bolts past me into her bathroom, hacking. Sighing, wondering why in the name of fuck I am doing this, I gather her hair back behind her head and hold it while she does the deed, until she's whimpering with that acidic regret that follows inevitably after. She stands in front of her mirror while I dab her face and give her a little mouthwash.
From there I guide her back to the bed, carefully pull her shoes off, yank the bedspread and comforter back, then tuck it up around her chin. Her cat, as if sensing that any risk of being puked on has passed, leaps up onto the bed and curls up near her, looking concerned with big green eyes.
"Meow," the cat meows.
Mills mumbles something and starts to snore lightly, lying on her side. She missed the pillows and flopped her head straight on the mattress, but I don't want to disturb her.
Okay, job done, I can leave now. I still have to unpack my shit in the Playskool No Fun Allowed Dorm. My hand stops at the doorknob. Yes, I would need to grasp and rotate that to open the door. What are you doing, Tyler?
Sighing, I look around. The apartment is tiny, wedged into what used to be the attic of this house, so the ceiling is all irregular. She situated her workspace in the dining room, which is really just the end of the kitchen with no countertops or appliances because it's the only place with straight walls where her bookcases will fit.
Tempted, I spy, but there's nothing juicy on the top layers of papers. She'd been working on lesson plans. Well, that's exciting.
"I'm thirsty," I hear her croak.
Yeah, I should help her stay hydrated. It'd be better if I can get her to eat. I don't think she needs to go to the emergency room, but I want to be sure. I'm not fond of rules and people telling me what to do, but a man has got to have a code and if she dies or gets brain damage or something, it's my fault. I poured her the drinks when I knew I shouldn't have.
Okay, thirst first. It's too much to hope to find a bottle of cranberry juice in her bare refrigerator. After some rummaging, I make a pitcher of sugar free lemonade (my God) from the tap and put some ice in it. When I offer it, she sits up groggily, holds the glass in both hands like a kid with a sippy cup, and downs it.
I take the cup back. Her fingers, cool and soft, trace over my hands. She looks at me with heavy eyes, her voice still slurred.
"You're hot."
"What?"
"I said you're hot," she giggles. "C'mere."
"I'd better not."
Her hands shoot out and she grabs my belt on either side of the buckle, pulling me close. I end up straddling her, and she's still pulling. God, this would be so easy. She's right under me, radiating heat, those gray eyes full of wild, manic energy. She runs her hands up my stomach and chest, and my cock, already half hard, floods with arousal and goes rigid in my pants, a heavy pulsing weight between my legs, pulling us together like it has its own gravity.
She should stink but she doesn't, she smells soft and lovely, and she doesn't taste bad, either, more like the lemons than anything. Her lips are amazingly soft, and she lets out a tiny moaning sound as I run my tongue over hers. She sighs.
"C'mere," she murmurs against my lips.
Her thighs push at my knees. She's trying to spread her legs. She flexes her body and lifts her hips towards me, like she's offering herself. As she twists, a thin sliver of her pale stomach becomes visible and...
She has a tattoo?
Breathing hard, I move towards her again, and stop.
No, I can't do this.
Tyler, you animal, she's fucking drunk. She can't say yes to you right now and you know she wouldn't if she was sober. This is a line I will not even consider crossing.
I pull away, gently removing her hands from my belt, and tuck the covers up around her neck again.
"Let me see if I can get some food in you. Sober you up a little."
I look for something to feed her. The fridge has some cheese, mayonnaise, and a...jar of peanut butter. Why does she chill her peanut butter? It doesn't matter. The rest of her food supply is in the freezer in the form of frozen meals, with canned food and boxes of unprepared Cheesy Beef in the cupboard. Oddly, they're all the varieties that appeal to kids, with noodles shaped like the cartoon characters on the boxes.
She does have half a dozen eggs and, again in the fridge, a loaf of bread. That will have to wait until morning.
Okay, I helped her pray before the throne, I helped her get some hydration, and she's asleep, so there's no need to try and feed her. She'll wake up with a pounding headache in the morning, hopefully having forgotten she saw me.
Damn it to hell.
I ta
ke a seat on her couch. It's bowed in the middle, in need of replacement. If I had to guess, I'd say all her furniture is thrifted. A side chair is actually a futon that folds out into a bed. I bet it's for the kid. Is she divorced? I didn't see a wedding ring. I mean, I wasn't checking her out, but looking for the wedding band is pretty much reflex at this point—my summer job tending bar at the beach gets me a lot of, ah, attention from a certain type of woman.
She has no cable, but she does have Netflix, and she's signed in. I smile to myself, feeling like a spy. A person's Netflix history and recommendations are as good as a dossier from the CIA when it comes to figuring a person out. I find myself wondering, what makes this woman tick? When I sign in it gives me the option to sign in as Mom or Becky.
Mom? Really?
That must be her. The screen comes up.
Her viewing history is all romance movies and TV shows. All of it. That Scottish time travel show, Hallmark movies, Lifetime movies. Romantic comedies, romantic dramas, romantic suspense movies with female detectives. I imagine her sitting here in her hoodie and old leggings curled up with a big bowl of popcorn, a pint of ice cream, and a badly homemade cosmopolitan, crying her eyes out over Mister Darcy or whatever the hell these shows are about.
The suggestions are all the same thing, but with some cooking shows and historical documentaries mixed in. My God, she watches PBS Ken Burns documentaries for fun. I still remember having to watch the Civil War for a class and coming out with that background music etched into my brain.
Scrolling through the selections, I eventually turn it off. I can't think of anything to watch and I really should be leaving, but it's getting late, as if I have ever cared on a Friday night, and I could just sleep here. I don't want to unfold the futon—I think that's for her kid.
Her kid. Imagining this woman having a child is puzzling. Hell, it's hard to imagine her having sex.
Scratch that, it's really easy to imagine her having sex. Let's say it's hard to imagine someone wanting to.
Ah, fuck it, who am I kidding.
So, I kick off my shoes and lie down, stretched out on the couch as it creaks beneath my weight. A yawn ripples out of me and a wave of fatigue rolls after it. I am tired. I worked my usual shift, and today I hauled all my crap halfway across town from my off-campus apartment. The guys were pissed, but what am I going to do? Drop out now?
Stuck With You Page 3
