Thirty Days: Part One

by Belle Brooks

  A towel has been placed on the vanity, for me, I’m assuming. I wrap it around my body and tiptoe towards the door. Please don’t be out there.

  “Hi,” I say shyly. He’s scowling, sitting on the bed in a long pair of cotton pajama bottoms.

  “You look disappointed. What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing. It’s…you know what, it’s nothing. I’ve had fun.”

  He stands, swaggering towards me. Oh Lord, he’s all kinds of fine. Leaning his face in close, he takes my bottom lip between his lips, clamping down, and then releases it as swiftly as he claimed it. His hands free the towel covering my body and it drops to the floor. Stepping backwards, he eyes me up and down. “Wow! You’re even hotter in the light.”

  I’ve never felt so vulnerable in my entire life. My legs begin to shake.

  “Come.” He takes my hand securely in his before lowering me onto the bed. “Lie with me,” he says as if asking.

  I do.

  Tucked in his arms, I feel a strange sense of safety from a man I’ve just met.

  But why does this seem odd?

  ***

  Smooth skin lies under my fingertips, skin that belongs to the man who claimed me tonight. His fingers twirl in my hair as his breathing slows to the point I can tell sleep is moments away. As he succumbs to this need, I lie there, angry at myself. Angry at my lack of control. At the position I’m now in. I haven’t slept with anyone since Mike, and Mike was my first. So Marcus makes the number two spot on how many people I’ve allowed to touch me in this way. This makes me beyond pissed. Why did I let this happen? I needed it to be Mike only, the man who shattered my heart. The man who rejected me. Now, there’s one more. Marcus has stolen something from me that I can’t get back. Fuck! Now I’m the whore!

  Knowing I can’t stay here the night, I begin devising a plan to sneak out. Wiggling my body little by little, his heavy arms slide free, and I ease myself from the bed.

  “Where the fuck is my dress?” I whisper.

  “On the balcony,” Marcus answers.

  Great.

  Climbing out from the sheets, he walks past me without a single glance. The door remains open after his exit and as quickly as he left he returns with the missing item in hand. Giving it to me, he sits facing me on the edge of the bed.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, putting it over my exposed skin.

  “Abigail, something’s wrong. I’ve asked you and you’ve denied it, but I know there’s a problem. Tell me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “But there is.”

  “I promise you there’s not. Just let it go. I had fun, you had fun, and now I need to go home.”

  “I’m not buying what you’re selling. You can tell me what the problem is.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I do. I don’t want you to leave here hurt.”

  “I’m not hurt.”

  “But you are.”

  This stand-off I can tell won’t end anytime soon. Marcus likes to ask questions and he likes honest answers. Something about him tells me he can pick a bull-shitter from a mile away.

  Huffing, I glare into his eyes. If he wants the truth, then he can have it. I gave him ample opportunity to drop the subject and like the stubborn arse he apparently seems to be he won’t.

  “Fine, you want me to tell you?”

  “Yes,” he snaps, annoyed.

  “It’s you. You’re the problem, okay?”

  “Why?”

  He’s hurt.

  “Because you waltz into my life, and in the one day you’ve been in it, you’ve—” I can’t bring myself to continue.

  “It’s been two days,” he interrupts, running his fingers through his hair.

  “What?”

  “The cemetery. I’ve been in your life for two days.”

  “Tell me one thing. Do you always make moves on girls who are vulnerable?”

  He smiles. He fucking smiles. “I’m an opportunist, Miss McMillian.” He must see confusion on my face. “It’s a pretty simple and clear reasoning.”

  Anger starts to build within me. Or is it that regret? “So what? You wait until someone is broken and then pounce, like a tiger hunting prey?”

  He laughs.

  The fact that this amuses him causes my fists to clinch.

  “No. I wait for a beautiful opportunity to present itself and then I claim it for my own. Big difference. There’s nothing wrong with having what you want.”

  “So I’m an opportunity? That’s how you view me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s messed up!” I yell in frustration.

  “Messed up?” he asks. Sculptured lips curl in amusement.

  That panic starts to pulse through my veins again. The need to get out of this house screams in my ears. “I can’t...I shouldn’t have...I…” Words don’t come out in the way I intend, so I stand there clutching my chest, which now aches so much I think it might explode.

  “Abigail, it’s okay. I wanted you. Hell, I needed to taste you...to touch you...I’ve wanted that since I laid eyes on you yesterday in that dress, and again this morning. Trust me, it was better than I could have imagined.” He reaches out, skimming my arm. This one touch ignites a fire within me. A fire that needs extinguishing immediately.

  “Well, I’m glad you got what you wanted. But for me this was a mistake. A catastrophic fucking mistake. I need to go.”

  “Abi, stop. Don’t run. What am I not getting?” There’s a delayed silence. He stares intently, looking worried. Seeing him this way makes me think I must be mirroring this same expression.

  “You’re not getting me!”

  “Hey, hang on. There’s something deeper going on here. I want to be your friend.”

  “Well, I don’t need any more friends. You don’t get it, do you?”

  His head shakes.

  “Being with another man, any man like this, was never supposed to happen. Then you come along with your good looks and magic, and you tricked me. I’m damaged, Mike. My life is a train wreck and I’m most definitely cursed, contrary to what others may think. Stay away from me, do you hear? Nothing good can ever come from this.”

  “I’m Marcus,” he replies sympathetically.

  “I’m not a whore. I know your flipping name,” I yell.

  “You said, ‘I’m damaged, Mike.’ I’m not this Mike. I’m Marcus. Are you sure you’re angry at the right person, Abigail?”

  “I’m angry at both of you. From now on, leave me alone.”

  Opportunist

  Running down a long pathway, seemingly leading nowhere, with the zip of your dress half undone and shoeless, is not a good look. But that’s me, Abigail the tramp. It feels like forever until the bar and Bertha finally come into sight.

  The need to cry is there, yet I don’t. My trembling fingers pull the handle of the car door. Of course it’s locked. I go to grab the keys from my handbag and my heart drops when I realise it’s still at Marcus’ house and I’m too exhausted and embarrassed to run back. So now I stand here with no keys, no wallet, and no phone.

  “This is just fucking great,” I scream. “Fuck you, you piece of shit hex. You win.” I slide to the ground and silently sob. My life is a disaster.

  “Hey, it’s going to be okay.”

  I huff when I hear his voice.

  “Abigail,” he says, pulling me from the ground and wrapping me into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

  I sob into Marcus’ chest where I’m now warm and safe, again. But it’s also the one place I shouldn’t be. I hate Marcus.

  “Let’s get you home.” The zip of my dress fastens in place under his touch. “I’m sorry, Abi,” he apologises again, helping me into the passenger seat of Bertha. The ignition turns over and his eyes are filled with pity.

  I close mine to get rid of the image and hope tomorrow never comes.

  “So, where’s home?”

  Not wanting him to know where I live, I give him Sammy’s
address, which is not far from where we are. “Are you right to drive?” I ask, worried he might still be over the legal limit for driving.

  “I’m fine, Abigail. I didn’t drink that much and it’s just after two a.m.”

  Shit! It’s so late.

  We say nothing during the ten minutes it takes us to get to Sammy’s. I know that tomorrow there’s no way I can go into work, and again I’m going to be jobless. Trish is going to kill me and this time the crew might do more than just an intervention—they might actually commit me.

  “We’re here.” He climbs out of Bertha and opens the passenger side door, helping me to the footpath. “Here’s your keys and handbag. I’ve put your shoes in the back seat.”

  “Thank you,” I say, depleted.

  “No problem.”

  Why is he so nice? “How are you getting back?”

  “I’ll get home, don’t worry.” His hands run through his hair as the corners of his mouth curl. Leaning forward, he kisses my cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Marcus.”

  “Don’t be.”

  And with that, he begins walking back the way we came and when I can no longer see him in the darkness, my fists start pounding on the front door.

  Angry eyes greet me. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve called at least twenty times. Your mum is going insane looking for you. Shit, Abigail,” she screams before her open palm strikes my upper arm.

  “Ouch!”

  “You deserve much more than that. Get inside. I’m calling your mum so she doesn’t die from heart failure.” The door slams behind me as Sammy stomps through the house. I hear her talking. Shit, the entire neighbourhood can probably hear her because she’s so angry. “Mrs. M, I promise you she’s safe,” I hear her say, completely stressed out.

  Mum is going to make me pay for this.

  “Abigail,” Mosby says, walking from the direction of the bedroom in boxers and a cotton singlet.

  “Hey.”

  “She’s pissed, dude, what gives?”

  “I’m about a Scotch away from writing myself off, Mosby.”

  “Come here.” He wraps his burley arms around me and kisses the top of my head. “There’s no good in everybody being angry at you, is there?”

  Silent tears stream down my cheeks as Sammy’s man, the one who wants to love her for life, offers me comfort. “I’ve screwed up big time,” I sob.

  “You have, dude, but they’ll get over it. You need to sort your shit out. Okay?”

  I nod before finding comfort in his chest, listening to his heartbeat, the calmness of the sound settling me.

  Suddenly, he begins to free me. “Okay, she’s on her way back. Good luck.”

  Luck is not what I need right now. I need a miracle.

  Sammy and I talk for the next hour. I fill her in on everything that happened. Strangely, she’s proud of the fact that I let myself be with another man, but not letting people know where I was overshadowed that.

  “Get some sleep, Abigail,” she orders after making me drink a litre of water, even though I tell her a million times I’m not nor have I been drunk tonight. Happy, yes. Drunk, no. “You have work in the morning and you’re going, so don’t argue.”

  Climbing under the covers of the spare bed in the room opposite hers, every part of me feels dirty. Every part of me feels remorseful. But most of all the hurt that’s bottled inside of me seems like it will never end. The door cracks open, and I can see a silhouette.

  “Dorothy?”

  “Yes, Ginger.”

  “I love you.”

  “Ditto,” I reply as she climbs in beside me.

  “What am I going to do with you?” She sighs.

  “Keep loving me.”

  Damage Control

  A gap in the blinds ensures the morning sun burns my eyelids.

  “No, go away, morning, stop taunting me with your rays of hell.” I groan, rolling over to escape its brightness. My eyes flutter open. Sammy. She looks tortured as she sleeps. Her face is scrunched tight and her breathing rapid.

  “No, stop doing this,” she gripes.

  What is she dreaming about? Is it me? As I stroke her hair gently, her face begins to relax.

  “Jackson,” she mumbles, pursing her lips.

  “It’s okay, babe,” I whisper.

  She smiles briefly before her breathing calms and a peaceful sleep ensues.

  “I’m sorry, Ginger.”

  Turning onto my back, I can’t help but think about last night—Marcus and his magic touch, Sammy and her anger, and Mosby and his comfort. Hoping it was only a dream, I climb out from under the sheets and sit perched on the edge of the bed. I know it wasn’t, but if I pretend hard enough, can it be?

  Mosby is in the kitchen when I enter.

  “Good morning, Abs,” he says in a tone too energetic for the morning.

  I grunt in response.

  “Well, aren’t you just a delightful morning person.” He passes me a glass of water.

  I skull every drop. “More,” I demand.

  He hands a second glass over, and it goes down as quickly as the first.

  Placing it heavily on a tacky green bench, I stumble a few steps.

  “Still drunk?”

  “Nope. Wasn’t to start with, just thirsty.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yep.”

  “Would you like some toast then?”

  “Time machine,” I reply with hands covering my face in shame.

  “If only, right? Come on, why don’t you sit down and talk to me? It can’t be that bad.” He pats the seat beside him.

  “Oh, but it is. You’ve no idea how very out of control this once innocent flower is.”

  “Well, I’m good a listener. If you want to talk.”

  “I slept with a man from my office last night,” I blurt out, without thinking first. Followed quickly by, “So, yeah…I’m now a skank. I should just become a stripper. At least then people would expect this from me.” As my hand smacks my forehand, Mosby stands, grabbing my wrist.

  “Don’t smack yourself, Abigail. Sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.”

  Pulling out a stool tucked under the breakfast bar, I sit. My cheek enjoys the coldness of the surface it now rests on. “Ground, please swallow me up,” I plead.

  “Hey, look at me,” Jackson says calmly. His eyes are kind as they make contact with mine.

  “God, you’re good-looking,” I declare.

  He chuckles. “Thank you.” He’s flattered, I can tell, yet suspicious of my compliment.

  “No, seriously, you’re superhot. Sammy is one lucky lady. You’re not just a fuckable face, either. You’re nice and you treat my Ginger like a frickin’ queen. Why are you the only good man alive?”

  He starts to laugh loudly. “Okay,” he emphasizes each syllable, completely embarrassed.

  I burst into laughter.

  “What’s funny?”

  “The fact that now that I’m a skanky bed hopper I’m allowed to say these things. I believe it’s deemed acceptable.”

  “You’re not a bed hopper, stop it.”

  “Why did I sleep with someone I just met, huh?” I search his eyes, hoping he has the answers I need to get rid of this regret that plagues me.

  “Abs, lots of people have one-night stands. It’s not an issue. From what Sammy’s told me, Mike has been your only bedroom partner, yes?”

  “Firstly, who says bedroom partner? That’s weird. What about calling a spade a spade—my only lay, fuck or even the man who forever claimed my virginity.”

  He scrunches his face.

  “Secondly, you two weirdos talked about my sex life? Dude, that’s gross.”

  He blushes.

  Holy crap, he’s really embarrassed now.

  “Well, it kind of came up when Sammy said you needed a good porking to get over Mike. She then added, ‘Abi’s chastity belt is so ironclad, she will become a lady of many cats before such a day happens.’ So, I kind of assumed fro
m that…”

  My mouth gapes open before I snap it shut. “You’ve got to love that girl. She’s hilarious.” I giggle. “Cat lady…”

  “I do love her,” he says with a look of rainbows and cotton candy.

  “Are you going to marry her?” I blurt out abruptly.

  “Yes.” He’s confident, without taking a pause before his reply.

  “Wow, Mosby, that’s big.”

  “It is.”

  “Are you going to walk out on her and break her heart one day, though?”

  “No, Abigail, I’m not.”

  Silence. I take a moment to think about how huge this really is. Mosby is going to one day ask Sammy to marry him. I want her to be happy, but I don’t think marriage will make her happy. How can it make anybody complete?

  “Abigail, are you okay?” Mosby asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Well, if you do, I’ll kill you. You will become crab feed after I slice you into bite-size bits.”

  “Good to know. So much detail, too. You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?”

  “From the moment you entered her life.”

  His eyes brighten. “I’ll give you no reason, promise.” He places both hands over his chest.

  The sound of toast popping ends the conversation.

  “Honey or jam?”

  “Honey.”

  “Juice or tea?”

  “Definitely juice. I’m never drinking tea again.”

  His brows arch. “Why?” he asks before taking a mouthful of what smells like coffee.

  “Because apparently the promise of a cup of tea makes me horny.”

  Liquid sprays out from between his teeth. He begins coughing and gasping for air. “What?” he yells between drowning breaths.

  “Long story.” I wink. His choking brings back memories of me doing the exact same thing on my Mudslide last night. “Now, now, Jackson, can’t you handle your liquids?” I repeat Marcus’ exact words.

  He flips me off before wiping down the bench. “Tea makes you horny, hey?”

  “Apparently.” We both laugh.

  Mosby sits down beside me, and we eat. Not a word is spoken until the last bite slides down my throat.

  “So how do you feel?”

  “Better.”