Afraid to Fly (Fearless #2)

by S. L. Jennings

  “Oh, Dom. You’re such a sweet gent. Too bloody sweet for this shit,” she giggled, looking soft and girlish. I liked her better that way, untarnished by the hardness of life.

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. Good guys like you shouldn’t be fucking strippers in the middle of the day. I mean, I’m not complaining—I can still feel you inside me, for crying out loud—but, I don’t know. You deserve better.”

  I winced at her words, and how much I longed for them to be true. She was just feeding me more lies, and I was ingesting them like candy.

  Except this one. This one I knew would never be true. Even if it was the one I wished for the most.

  “Nah, I don’t. They don’t call me Dirty for nothing.”

  I’D FUCKED UP. I knew I had. And it was hurting the one person that I couldn’t fail.

  I knew going off on Dominic would cause a ripple effect. I pissed him off, he pissed me off, and in turn, we would disturb the tiny bit of peace that Toby had found in working with him.

  Toby had seen everything, had probably even heard everything. And considering that he hardly looked at me after I got into the car, he agreed with Dominic. He admired the guy. I don’t know why, but he had made a genuine connection with him. He actually enjoyed hanging out with him after school, and playing board games. Which was huge, because Toby didn’t like anything. I hadn’t seen him find pleasure in regular everyday activities for as long as I’d had him in my care. And before that . . . I don’t know. I wasn’t in his life then. And while part of me wished I had been, I was grateful I escaped the mental anguish that came with being birthed by Adeline West.

  I called her Adel because she told me she was too young and too beautiful to be someone’s mother. And she was too young and beautiful. Just as she wasn’t much of a mother. People called her a free spirit, and free spirits couldn’t be contained. My grandparents couldn’t, so when she was just fifteen, she flew away from the nest of her childhood home. She literally lived by her own rules, refusing to be bound by laws or social etiquette. Meaning that for most of my young years, I was as wild and free as she was.

  I remember her laughing a lot and smiling a lot. I remember singing at the top of our lungs during car rides in her Camaro. My mom was the most badass person in the entire world to me, and I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to be ruled by passion and creativity, and not by other people’s perceptions of what was right and decent.

  We lived like gypsies for a while, wandering the world in search of beauty, until love grounded us. Gene Christian was the complete polar opposite of Adel—patient, hardworking, level-headed—and he was completely smitten with her. I’d have liked to say that he wooed her, but I think it was the other way around. They both fell fast and hard, and soon our dynamic duo became a trio, and Adel got married. She was happy, so I was happy. And Gene was good to me, providing me with the father figure I had never had. The father figure I never realized I needed.

  Gene brought much needed structure to our lives. I couldn’t play hooky from school to go swimming at the lake with Adel on hot days. I couldn’t have ice cream for dinner or brownies for breakfast. And I actually had a bedtime. I was confused at first, maybe even a bit resistant. But then I realized what a difference those rules made in my overall wellbeing, and I was grateful for his intrusion.

  I felt the same way when Toby came along. He was a tiny little thing—barely six pounds—but he was easily the cutest baby I had ever seen. Where I took after my mom with my dark locks and ice blue eyes, Toby looked like his dad. His hair was light brown, as were his eyes. And he seemed to hold a warm tan all year round. My skin was pale, and I was lucky just to pick up a little sun on my cheeks without scorching.

  Adel was in love with him instantly, but she still didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. She still wanted to sleep all day, and stay up late at night listening to records as she poured over photos in her makeshift black room. She was a self-taught photographer, an artist, and I was enamored by her talent. Even though I was left to the task of caring for a newborn, she was still majestic to me, as most mothers are to their children. We don’t know any better at that age.

  We lived happily for years, and for some time, Gene was able to tame Adel. He had found a way to tether her to reality long enough to give us a somewhat normal life.

  That normalcy lasted until my freshman year in high school. Then it all fell to pieces like the torn remnants of an old photograph.

  When Gene left Adel, it was like he took a piece of her soul with her, and that fun-loving, fancy-free woman we had known ceased to exist. On the other side of that carefree attitude was a darkness so deep and vast that even the love of her children could not fill it. She became completely consumed by her grief, as if Gene was all that had ever mattered in her world. It was like we were just accessories, and without him, nothing fit. And even though she blamed me for Gene’s departure—rightfully so—it didn’t explain why she took her pain and anger out on Toby. Maybe it was because he looked like his father. Or maybe because down to her core, past all the beauty and flightiness, she was a miserable bitch.

  And just as I had wished as a child, I was becoming just like her.

  I walked into The Pink Kitty Friday night, with a bad attitude and cramps. I was not to be fucked with. I hated working there as it was, but after having words with Dominic, serving drinks to desperate pervs and frat boys seemed even less appealing. Still, the tips were good, especially on the weekend, and we needed the money. A year ago, I only had myself to think about, and could scrape by on part-time photography gigs like weddings, graduations and births. Now, I didn’t even have time to take a selfie with my POS phone, let alone pick up my camera to capture something worthwhile.

  Passion didn’t pay the bills. Art didn’t put food on our table. And dreams didn’t take care of my kid brother.

  So here I was, gearing up to prance around in short shorts that barely sheathed my ass-cheeks and a tank top so tight that you could see the outline of my nipples. Wedge sneakers on my feet because I refused to strut around in platform heels like some streetwalker. What kinda tacky shit was that anyway?

  Most of the girls were cool, with the exception of a few chicks that I knew were trash. I could smell it on them—the desperation . . . the jealousy. Mean girls in glittery thongs and edible body butter. They looked down on me like they were superior in some way, like taking their clothes off for a roomful of strangers made them goddesses. I laughed at them and treated them like the clowns that they were. Maybe that was why they hated me so much.

  I walked into the dressing room to stow my purse and change into my booty shorts, because quite frankly, I’d rather go outside butt naked than be caught dead in them. It was packed, and it seemed like every girl was working tonight. Great. So not only would I be busting my hump slinging cocktails, I’d also have to deal with some of TPK’s resident cunt nuggets. One of them being little Miss Cherri. She looked sweet and innocent on the outside, but the bitch was a slut in sheep’s clothing. And I didn’t just think that just because I saw her being overly friendly with Dom that one night. She really was a tramp, and I was pretty sure she was turning tricks on the property.

  “Ugh. What a waste of a perfectly good pair of jubblies,” a familiar British accent sounded behind me. I turned around to a jarring flash of purple hair that belonged to Velvet, my closest friend at The Pink Kitty, before she flopped into the vanity seat beside me. I hadn’t been working there long, but Velvet instantly welcomed me with open arms and had insisted we become friends. So we did.

  I followed her gaze over the door where Cherri had just arrived. She was a featured dancer which, in her eyes, made her Mariah Carey of the pole. Classy.

  “Awesome,” I remarked, rolling my eyes.

  “She grates my fucking nerves, that one. Good thing I got laid today. I actually don’t feel like stabbing the slag.”

  “Laid? Oh, do tell.” That got my attention and I spun around, my expression be
gging for more. Shit, my sex life was nonexistent, so I lived vicariously through Velvet who was always willing to share a juicy story.

  “Ah, just a friend. Nice guy, actually. Sexy as all hell and fucks like a rock star, good God. I think he fucked me so good, I passed out at one point. And that big, thick knob of his tastes like you’re smoking a clove cigarette, I bullshit you not.”

  “The fuck . . . ?” I managed to spit out before laughing my ass off. Only Velvet would use such a colorful description.

  “Seriously! Fucking divine. I just wish he wasn’t such a bloody nice, suit-and-tie wanker. A few tatts, maybe a cock piercing, and I could work with him. But he’s as straight and narrow as they come. He’d be perfect for you though,” she smiled conspiratorially, propping her thigh-high patent leather boots on the vanity counter.

  “Um, no thanks. I don’t do sloppy seconds,” I remarked as I focused on applying eyeliner in the mirror. I rarely wore much makeup during the day, but it was necessary here. I wasn’t as talented as Velvet and the rest of the girls, but I knew how to put on eyeliner, mascara, lipstick and a little blush. That was all I could pick up, considering my mother had never taught me.

  “Oh, don’t be such a fucking prude. It’s not like I want to date the guy. But you could.”

  I just shook my head. Velvet was my friend, yes, but she didn’t know about Toby. Nobody did, and I planned to keep it that way. So I couldn’t just tell her that I was too busy to date because I was raising a selectively mute preteen.

  “Well, suit yourself. You could use a good shagging.” She groaned as she climbed to her feet, sore from her day shift. Or maybe it was from the sex. “Ok, I’m completely knackered, love. Think about what I said.” Then she pinched my ass and left to go home for the evening.

  I sighed heavily as I inspected myself in the mirror. My large baby blues seemed even bigger outlined in black, and my lips looked full and plump painted in red. I would never be bold enough to wear this color outside these walls, but in here, any and everything was game.

  As I was tying an apron around my waist, I brushed past Cherri as she was changing into her first getup of the evening—a pair of high-wasted shorts that exposed her butt cheeks and a teeny tiny triangle bikini top adorned with cherries.

  “Excuse you,” she sneered, in her nice-nasty tone. Men thought it was adorable. Women could hear the fakeness in it with every saccharine-laced syllable.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, not meaning it.

  “Of course you are. I swear, you’d think a waitress would be more coordinated. But I guess anyone off the street could hold a tray of drinks.” She looked me up and down, her shiny, glossed pout pursed in distaste. “Or maybe not.”

  I paused. Counted to ten. Took a deep breath. Anything to keep from snatching this bitch by her red weave and smashing her face into the lockers. I couldn’t afford to get fired, and that would surely happen if I disfigured TPK’s cash cow. Plus, we had a strict, zero tolerance policy when it came to violence or substance abuse.

  Still, the urge to throttle her ass was almost as strong as my need for employment. Pre-Toby, she would had been picking her teeth off the floor. Post-Toby, I had to just deal with it and walk away.

  If he could live with Adeline West at her lowest of lows, I could certainly deal with a prissy bitch wearing clear plastic platform heels that she bought at ho-sale from Stripper Warehouse.

  Do it for Toby, I told myself. Do what she wouldn’t have done.

  Even if that included making amends with Dominic Trevino.

  It had been one of those weekends. Drinking at Dive until the wee hours, snagging a chick at last call, waking up and feeling like shit on top of shit, spread on shit. Warmed over.

  By Sunday, my liver felt like a fucking raisin, and every bone in my body ached with exhaustion. Last night had been . . . crazy. I wasn’t even sure how I got home. I just know that when I woke up, there was a redhead in my bed, and a brunette on my cock. The redhead was Cherri. The brunette was Alyssa, the elementary school teacher that had adopted the concept of sharing is caring. Fine by me.

  I let her suck me off, then I watched through hooded eyes as the girls kissed, their fingers moving between each other’s legs. When they were hot and ready, I positioned myself between Cherri’s thighs while Alyssa straddled her face. Then we became one, me fucking Cherri, and her fucking Alyssa. It was blissful, erotic, and almost enough to make me stop thinking about Raven. Almost.

  Even as I came, I saw her face pinched in that little scowl that was just too cute for me to take seriously. I hated myself for thinking of her fondly after what she had said to me . . . after what she had stirred inside me. It wasn’t the rejection that hurt. It was the fact that she actually felt those things about me. She really thought I was some phony, narcissistic asshole that didn’t give a rat’s ass about Toby or her. And that could not have been further from the truth.

  I silently left the room to clean up, taking my time so the girls could slip out with whatever shred of dignity they had left. Unfortunately, they didn’t accept the gift, and made themselves at home. I followed the trail of female chatter and laughter, dinging of pots and pans, and the clamor of silverware to the kitchen where I found Alyssa and Cherri cooking. Cooking. In my kitchen. Wearing my clothes.

  No. Just . . . No.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked, my voice carrying over their vibrant conversation.

  Cherri spoke up first, twirling on bare feet with a spatula in her hand. “Breakfast, baby,” she said, strutting towards me. She raked her fingers over my bare chest and leaned in close. “Hope you’re hungry.”

  “No.”

  “No? You’re not hungry?” She looked disappointed, but I didn’t care.

  “No, I’m not. And no, you’re not fixing breakfast.”

  She reeled back as if I’d slapped her. “Excuse me?”

  “This!” I exclaimed, motioning towards the sizzling skillet and the plate of fresh, fluffy pancakes. “This is over. I don’t want breakfast. I want you both to leave.”

  “But we thought . . .” Alyssa’s voice was just a tremor, much softer than her raucous screams in the bedroom.

  “Don’t think,” I deadpanned. “Just leave. Leave now.”

  I knew I had hurt them—I could see it smudged on their faces along with last night’s mascara—but I couldn’t care. Caring got me nowhere—that much was obvious.

  “Ouch. Rough night?” Angel asked, leaning in the doorframe of the kitchen in nothing more than a long t-shirt. She had to have heard everything. The girls weren’t exactly quiet about their grievances as they got dressed.

  The front door slammed, rattling the entire apartment. I could still feel quivers in my gut. Or was that guilt?

  I shrugged. “Awkward morning.”

  She sipped coffee from her new favorite mug, it stating:

  I’m not always a bitch.

  Just kidding.

  Go fuck yourself.

  I had given it to her this past Christmas, and apparently, it was love at first sight. Novelty coffee mugs were my go-to gift. Between the three of us—well, two of us now—we probably owned over twenty of them. I gave Kami one that was fashioned like a prescription pill bottle, which was more ironic than funny. She was a good sport about it though.

  “You’re totally bugging out, dude. I told you something was up.”

  “Whatever.” I could feel her eyes on me—and hear the question in her statement—as I turned away to make myself a cup of coffee in the mug that was fashioned as a handgun. Fitting. Angel could tell something was up. The problem with having friends that were your family was that they knew you entirely too well.

  “Seriously. There’s something you’re not telling me. And it isn’t that you’ve been fucking the bootleg Sister Wives either. I can smell it on you . . . you okay?”

  I turned and leaned against the counter, waiting for my coffee to brew. “Can we not do this right now? I just got called every kind of prick and asshole
in existence, and a few I’m sure they made up just for shits and giggles. I really don’t remember paging Dr. Phil.”

  “Fine, fine. But this emo boy shit has got to stop. God, I feel like I’m rooming with a teenage girl right after she found out that kid left One Direction. What’s his name?”

  “Zayn.”

  “Right, Zayn. And I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just know his name, because I’d really like to remember you having balls between your legs. I mean, I love vagina. But you’d make a really ugly, hairy girl. Quick—go chug a beer and scratch your nuts.”

  “You’re pretty obsessed with my boys, you know. Could you be switching teams? I mean, I’d be willing to help you test it out. I’m that good of a friend.” My eyebrows danced suggestively, causing Angel to make a face.

  “Ewww, no thank you. After what you just did with Ginger and Mary Ann? I’d rather bone the Skipper.”

  We laughed together, and it felt good, serving as a dose of the therapy I so desperately needed. I had been self-medicating for so long that I had become numb to it all. And I wasn’t talking about meds.

  “Hey, you have plans today?” she asked suddenly, her big blues dancing with excitement.

  I shrugged. “Nope. Laundry.”

  “Ok, stick around.” Just as quickly as she’d showed up, she disappeared into her room.

  A few hours later, I was taking my second load out of the dryer, and had just finished washing my car. I skipped the gym—I couldn’t move even if I wanted to, and I really wanted to avoid bumping into Lauren, or any other chick I had slept with. Just as I was done folding my whites, I heard the front door open, and the rustle of shopping bags.

  “Hello?”

  I tossed the roll of socks in my hand, and darted out to the hall. Kami stood there, her arms draped with bags, her face glowing like the sun, and her smile bright enough to light the darkest night.

  “What are you doing here? And why didn’t you call me? You know you shouldn’t be carrying all this stuff,” I chastised, taking the bags from her and heading towards the kitchen. “Go sit down and put your feet up.”