by K. Webster
He exhales a sharp breath. “Sorry isn’t good enough, I’m afraid. Answer Sid when he calls. You have to fix this as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, Dad,” I groan in defeat before hanging up.
After a very long, introspective, hot shower, I sit on the edge of my bed with my elbows on my knees. The self-loathing I have for myself at the moment has my mind screaming for relief. I sigh as I ease open my bedside table and look for something to aid me. Several different pill bottles beg to be opened. I have a guy who hooks me up with the best shit, so I twiddle my thumbs as I decide which direction I want to go. Right now, blocking it out seems like the most desirable option.
Reaching into the drawer, I grab the bottle of Vicodin and then pop the cap. Once I withdraw two, I place them on my tongue and chase them with a half-empty energy drink that’s been sitting on my nightstand for God only knows how long.
At what point did my life become this? When did I lose such a great part of me that I became this lonely shell of myself? Sometimes I wonder if the world will even miss Donald “Do-Do” Dickhead Archibald Jennings Jr. At what point did I become fucking invisible to the ones I love and on a dinner platter for the ones who don’t love me?
The room wobbles as the pills take effect. Moments earlier, my heart was in a fucking vise. But now, I’m quickly falling into a blissful oblivion. A place where I can be numb. A place where feelings and shit don’t belong.
Sliding under the covers, I ignore my ringing phone. Ignore the fact that it’s probably Sid Mooney and my Dad’ll be pissed I didn’t take the call. I push away all of it as my mind falls deeper and deeper into a black slumber.
Just as the black sucks me under, my thoughts swirl madly around one particular vision that won’t leave me.
Her.
Lady Hurricane.
Nora fucking Storm.
I struggle to push her away too because I need this black void of nothing. I need to get the pain in my heart to subside. But when I think of those angry-turned-compassionate, chocolate eyes, I groan. Instead of pushing her completely from my mind, I welcome her in.
With the vigor of an impending epic storm, she forces herself into every corner of my blank mind. Her path is not one of destruction though. Something about her seeps to my very core of my being and saturates it with the warmth of the fucking sun.
I’ve lost my goddamned mind.
“You’ll live, you know,” Libby assures me as she scoops her purse up from underneath her desk.
Our shift is over, and now, I have to head over to Dad’s for dinner. I texted him earlier in the day and told him that I’d come by. As exhausted as I am, I know it needs to be done.
“What a disaster, Lib. Seriously. Could things get any freaking worse?” I complain as I follow her down the hallway to the parking garage.
She waits for me to catch up and puts an arm around my shoulder, hugging me to her as we walk. “Honey, I’m sure things could get a hell of a lot worse. But it’s not the end of the world. So what your dad finally found out about your other job flaunting your titties. So what Donnie from The frigging Aces pulled you off stage onto his massive cock. Don’t ruin my fantasy—lie to me and tell me it was massive.”
I smile at her attempt to cheer me up. It’s definitely working. “No lie. It was pretty freaking massive.”
“Ha! I knew it! Anyway, so what if he got hauled off to jail because he wanted you all for himself. So what if you maxed out your credit to help that boy. So what if Stormy’s panties are in a bunch because you tainted his perfect reputation. Because you know what? At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. There are bigger fish to fry. Don’t sweat the small stuff, babe.”
Libby always has the most bizarre advice, but it somehow always makes sense.
“Lib. I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about him. Donnie. This is a big freaking fried fish for him. He needs help. I can see that he’s been tossed to his own devices and he can’t handle it. When I looked into his eyes, I saw a broken man. I saw a man who had damn near hit rock bottom. He’s close. And that scares the hell out of me for him.”
She stops and turns to me, stroking my cheek. “Nor, you can’t save everyone.”
Tears fill my eyes. Immediately, images of those I couldn’t save flood my mind. If Dad were here in this moment, he’d get pissed at me for going all “mom” on him. But I can’t help it. No one can’t talk to people through terrifying situations every single day and not come out on the other side unscathed. Sometimes, you get a success story like the time I helped Donnie deliver June’s baby. Or the time I kept a four-year-old boy on the phone and walked him through keeping his unconscious mother comfortable until help arrived.
The other times are the ones that gut me though. The times when I have a battered woman trying to escape her abuser and I can hear the sickening noises as his fists pound her flesh while I urgently plead for him to stop and for her to hold on. Or the times when the wife wails as she clutches her dead husband because a heart attack snatched him too early from this Earth.
This job is not for the faint of heart.
“But I want to save them all. Him included.” My voice is shaky, and her kind eyes, which are looking at me, blur as mine fill with tears of defeat.
“I know, sugar. But you can’t.”
She wraps her arms around me and embraces me with a hug that I’m sure has comforted her kids on many occasions. I silently cry for several moments while she strokes my back. When my breaths even back out, she speaks again.
“Spaghetti?”
“Yep.”
“Bitch. You know I’m jealous that I’m missing out on your dad’s specialty. We can no longer be friends unless you show up tomorrow with leftovers to share at lunch with me.”
I giggle at my friend. She’s doing her best to pull me from my funk.
Then, gasping in mock horror, I pull away from her. “I wouldn’t dream of showing up empty-handed.”
And just like that, my mood lifts and I feel better prepared to face my father.
“Grab the salad from the fridge, sunshine,” Dad tells me when I walk into the kitchen.
I swallow down a sob when my eyes flit across the room. Everything is still decorated exactly as it was eight years ago. With the garlicky smell coming from her recipe coupled with the time-frozen kitchen, I’m overwhelmed by memories of my mother.
“Sure,” I choke out and quickly hide my tears as I locate the salad.
After closing the refrigerator door, I carry the bowl into the dining room and set it next to the pot of spaghetti. Dad has already set the table, and he follows me in with the bread.
“I think this might be the best one yet,” he says with a smile before taking his seat at the head of the table.
I sit down beside him in the same seat I’ve always sat in. “You always say that, Dad. I don’t think you can improve on perfection,” I tease.
He chuckles as he begins serving our food for us. Things seem easy between us, but I know he wants to talk more about what happened. I’m just treading lightly until then.
After we’ve talked about the weather while eating—because that’s what you do when your father is a meteorologist—he finally sits back and regards me seriously.
“I want you to quit, Nora.”
My eyes fly to his. Before yesterday, I would have done it without thinking twice. But that was before I’d decided to max out my credit card by bailing a certain someone out of jail.
“Dad, I can’t.”
His features quickly turn angry. “What do you mean you can’t? You can and you will. I will not have my daughter working for a filthy establishment. We are not trash.”
I sigh heavily and pin him with my gaze. “I’m a grown woman. I can work wherever I want. Besides, I need the job until I pay some stuff off.”
He slams his fist on the table. “Nora, this is ridiculous. I’ll pay off your debts, but you are not working there anymore.”
Shaking my head at him, I
stand from my seat. “I’m leaving, Dad. We won’t see eye to eye on this. Once I take care of my responsibilities, I’ll quit. But until then, I will continue to fulfill my obligations. I’m sorry if you can’t accept that.”
He mutters a string of curse words under his breath before stopping me with a softer tone. “Nora, wait. You can’t leave.”
I raise my brow in confusion. “Why not?”
“I’ve been contacted by Mr. Jennings’s attorney. They’re holding a press conference this evening for him to issue a public statement of apology. We’ve been asked to attend this. Since you claim he didn’t assault you, it would be in our best interest to participate. The quicker we put this little problem to rest, the quicker it goes away. Are you okay with seeing that man?”
My heart does a little flutter. I need to see him—to talk to him.
“Of course, Dad.”
But as I look down at my outfit choice, I frown, already rethinking my promise to attend. Since I came straight from work, I’m still wearing a black knee-length skirt, a cream-colored button-up blouse, and heels. I look like a freaking grandma. My unruly hair is piled up on top of my head, but even if I pull it down, I won’t be able to tame it into submission before the press conference. And makeup. Why the hell can’t I just be a normal girl who wears makeup every day to work?
“All right then, sunshine. Let’s get this mess cleaned up.”
“Miss Storm, are the allegations true that the drummer for The Aces beat you up?”
“Miss Storm, is it true Donnie Jennings was seeking revenge after your messy breakup?”
“Miss Storm, can you allow us an exclusive tell-all interview of how you were abused by Donnie Jennings of The Aces?”
“Mr. Storm, was it a surprise to find your daughter the headlining act of a topless bar?”
“Mr. Storm, will your daughter be pressing charges against Donnie Jennings?”
My head is spinning as the reporters buzz about with their incessant and ridiculous questioning. Dad drags me by my hand down the hallway at Mooney, Matlock, and Steele law firm through the throng of journalists. When we finally arrive at an oversized conference room, we push our way through the doors and are rewarded with a reprieve from the chaos.
I look around the room and see several reporters with lanyards that grant them exclusive access to the press conference around their necks. They wisely sit quietly in a group of chairs at one end of the room. On the opposite side is a podium with several chairs situated behind it. I see two older men I don’t recognize and two younger, tattooed ones plus a petite blonde I do. Three vacant seats are on one end, presumably two of which for my dad and me. The third seat belongs to Donnie, I’m sure, but for some reason, he isn’t here yet.
Instantly, I wonder where he is. There’s a niggling of worry beginning to take root in my mind.
“Mr. Storm, Miss Storm, so glad to meet you,” one of the older gentlemen booms. He ushers us over to the people sitting down. “I’m Sid Mooney. Please meet Dr. Donald Archibald Jennings Senior.”
My dad and I take turns shaking hands with a very serious, clean-cut, older version of Donnie.
“I’d like to apologize on the behalf of my son,” he declares. His voice is cold, and I instantly don’t like him.
“Thank you,” Dad replies for the both of us.
Dr. Jennings sits down, and Sid continues his introductions. “This is Bobby Acer, Chaz Montgomery, and Ryan Montgomery from The Aces.”
They all greet me somberly.
“Where’s Donnie?” I blab out before I can stop myself.
Bobby’s eyes narrow as he regards me. “He should be here soon. Probably just got caught in the crowd. Donnie doesn’t arrive early for anything.” The corner of his mouth quirks up in a half smile.
I match his smile with one of my own.
We’ve just taken our seats beside the band, leaving a space for Donnie, when we hear the crowd roaring outside of the conference room again. Dad squeezes my hand supportively. I don’t need his support though. I just need to see Donnie. My heart races in anticipation.
The door bursts open and Donnie saunters in, sunglasses hiding his eyes. I don’t have to see his eyes to know that something isn’t right. He slightly sways as he makes his way over to us.
“Unfuckingbelieveable,” Chaz mutters under his breath.
I know he’s pissed that Donnie showed up stoned as hell on something to a freaking press conference. We all expect him to come sit down, but he goes straight for the microphone. Shit, this is not good.
After yanking the mic from the stand, he awkwardly fumbles with the switch to turn it on before facing us. Facing me. He removes his sunglasses and regards me with glassy eyes.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
“I want to apologize to that beautiful woman,” he says a little too loudly into the microphone, “right there. She didn’t d-deserve to be m-mistreated. I’m a fuck-up.” His voice is beginning to slur.
I immediately stand up along with Donnie’s dad and Chaz. Those two look like they’re ready to kill him. I have to stop this.
Before I have time to change my mind, I storm over to him and take the microphone away. “Come on,” I tell him as I set it back down.
His eyes blink sadly at me several times. People, including my dad, are yelling angrily, but I ignore all of them. I can see Donnie retreating further and further into the recesses of his mind. I have to get him away from them.
Lacing my fingers with his strong ones, I quickly drag him from the conference room. The reporters begin shouting out their questions, but we push past them, and I’m surprised when he runs with me down the hallway. Together, we fly down the corridor and into the elevators, just barely getting them closed before the horde of people arrives. Instead of taking him to the ground floor, where more of them are inevitably waiting, I push the button to the second floor. Being that it’s in the evening, the hallway is dark on this floor since the employees have already gone home for the night.
Donnie remains silent as I guide him along while I check doors. They’re all locked except the one that opens up to a breakroom. A soda machine hums in the corner. Once I’ve dragged him over to the sofa in the middle of the room, I pull him with me behind it. We both slide to the floor side by side.
Both of our chests heave from the exertion for several minutes before either of us speaks up. But Donnie shocks me when he’s the first to say something.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters.
Our hands are still conjoined, so I just squeeze his. “It’s okay.”
He groans in frustration and runs his free hand through his messy hair. “No, Nora, it’s not okay.”
I can see that, no matter what I say to him, he won’t hear any of it. He is in a self-loathing phase and there’s nothing I can do to stop that. Instead, I lean my head against his shoulder.
“You smell good,” I say in an attempt to change the subject. But it isn’t a lie. He smells damn good.
I get a small chuckle and it’s enough to give me hope.
“You smell better.” He inhales my hair loudly, and it’s hard to ignore the goose bumps that prickle my flesh.
My legs are stretched out in front of me, and I gasp when he releases my hand to softly grip my thigh. His thumb gently grazes across my knee, and he curses.
“Fuck, Nora. Did I do that to you?”
Both of my knees are sporting ugly bruises from my fall last night. They don’t hurt, but they’re definitely there.
“No, I fell roller-skating,” I lie.
The tension seizing his body releases in a swoosh as he bursts out laughing. “You are so full of shit, lady.”
I grin and turn to him. His eyes are still glassy, but he’s smiling, which makes me very happy.
“What? You can’t imagine me roller-skating?” I demand in mock annoyance.
He chuckles as he brings a palm to my cheek and strokes me with his thumb. “Actually, I’m imagining you dressed as a roller derby girl and it
’s pretty fucking hot. I bet you’d tackle me. You’re good at that.” He wags his eyebrows at me, and I swat playfully at him.
“I so did not tackle you last night, sir,” I laugh.
“You so did, lady.”
Our amusement dies down as he wraps his arm around me and draws me close. My head rests against him. The warmth of his body relaxes me. Something about this just feels right.
Light flashes on and I squint as I try to make out my surroundings. My body is stiff as hell, and it takes a moment for me to remember where I am. I’m sprawled out on the floor on my back and Nora is wrapped around me like a damn spider monkey. She feels so warm, and I don’t want to get up from this position, but I can hear people chatting happily as they clatter around in the kitchen making coffee. I kiss the top of her head and stroke her hair.
“Wake up, sleepy monkey,” I whisper.
She moans as she tries to stretch, and the morning wood I was trying desperately to keep at bay greets her proudly.
“Oh!” she gasps and lifts her head to look at me.
Her legs are on either side of me with her skirt bunched up her thighs. When I think about the fact that her little scrap of panties and my jeans are the only things separating what I know will be a blissful union, I groan in desperation.
She’s so different than what I’ve considered hot in the past. Before, the bigger the tits, the blonder the hair, and the sluttier the outfit was all it took to get me interested. But this woman? Shit. She’s in a whole other league. Her clean, makeup-free face portrays a soft, innocent look. Those big, brown eyes of hers always seem to be penetrating my very being. She fucking sees right through me—through the bullshit façade. A smile tugs at my lips when I notice that her hair is a wild, hot mess sticking up in every direction.
I expect her to scramble off me, but instead, she surprises me when she dips her head down and plants a chaste kiss on my lips. My hands slide up her thighs and grip her hips as I gently push her harder against my cock. She lifts her head and a small whimper escapes her. If these fucking people weren’t in here, I’d have those panties gone in three seconds and she’d be riding my cock.
