Regret (Never Waste a Second Chance Book 2)

by Janice M. Whiteaker

  “I just don’t know why in the heck she’s back here.” She and Carol were close as children, but once puberty hit and Carol could fend for herself, she did, leaving Nancy in her wake, cleaning up her messes and dealing with her discarded responsibilities. It didn’t make sense that their relationship would be a reason to return. “And she seems so calm.”

  “I don’t know. I do know age changes people.” Mina got quiet for a second then looked up at Nancy. “Do you think she’s sick?”

  That never occurred to Nancy. It would be one of the few explanations that made sense. Maybe Carol was here to make peace with the life and the people she left behind.

  And screwed over.

  ****

  Paul felt sick as the excess of liquid in his stomach sloshed around. Drinking was harder than he remembered it being. Maybe if it was doing a more accurate job of making him forget the shit in his life, he wouldn’t mind how big of a pain in the ass it was. But it wasn’t, so he was stuck listening to the sound of his own slurred words and thinking about Nancy.

  Her and his broken fucking dick.

  The bar around him erupted as the game on the television got interesting. Interesting to them anyway. He couldn’t give two shits about some fucking punk kid who could make a cool mil for throwing a ball. His dick probably worked too. He was probably fucking a different girl every night. Prick probably didn’t appreciate it either.

  It wasn’t fair. All those year he wasted on other women. Wasn’t fair to him, wasn’t fair to them, wasn’t fair to his Nancy.

  Fuck. She wasn’t his. Never was, now never could be. He couldn’t make her his. Not in the way she deserved and from the way things seemed the other night, the way she wanted.

  It had been a long time since Paul had been intimate in any sort of a way with a woman. The last time was the night his issues came fully into the light.

  Paul downed half the remaining whiskey in his glass, savoring the burn as it slid down, trying to dull the sting of the memory.

  It would have been the last time he tried to be with a woman, even if the one in question had been a little more understanding about the situation. As it was, she didn’t take to kindly to a man being unable to get a hard on at the sight of her naked body stretched before him.

  He understood her reaction. Tried to explain it wasn’t her, it was him, but she didn’t want to hear it. She threw his pants in his face and ordered him out of her life.

  He went home that night and vowed never to be in that position again, but he’d been stupid enough to come dangerously close in recent weeks. Maybe it was because he knew Nancy would never throw him out. Never become irate with his lack of function. Her sweetness weakened his resolve to the point he almost convinced himself it could work. They could work. He could make her happy in other ways.

  Then he saw just how sexually functional she was. He hadn’t been ready for the way she reacted to his touch. The way she moved. The way she moaned. How very, very ready her body was for anything he would want to do to her.

  He also wasn’t ready for the anger that bubbled up inside him. The frustration he felt when he discovered just how much he would have to deny her. Exactly how much she needed and wanted the one thing he couldn’t give her.

  He finished the last of his drink and knocked on the bar. Within seconds, the bartender was standing across from him, eyeing him heavily.

  “You sure you need another?”

  All it took was two seconds of remembering Nancy’s words, whispered in his ear, full of longing and needed. Words that changed everything.

  “Yup.”

  The bartender stood still for a second longer, studying him for signs of over serving. It was not something he was used to. A few months ago, his desire for another drink was never even questioned, so why now? Especially since he needed that drink now more than ever.

  Finally a tumbler slid across the smooth wood bar. To prove his point, Paul downed it in one take, licking his lips as he set the empty glass heavily on the bar. He closed his eyes and waited for the liquor to sink in. He really needed it too. And soon. Erase those soft sweet words that played over and over in his mind.

  ‘I want you.’

  Paul felt the bar around him gently begin turning on some unseen axis. The sounds filling the room, the voices, the gentle clinking of glasses and bottles, faded as he began to float.

  “You all right Paul?” The bartender’s voice jolted him from his first moments of peace in months.

  He opened his eyes and scowled. “Fine.”

  The man raised his eyebrow. “You don’t look fine.”

  “I am.” Paul lowered his brows. He wasn’t here to socialize.

  The bartender shook his head. “I gotta cut you off.”

  “Whatever.” He pushed away from the bar.

  “You can’t drive Paul. Don’t make me call the cops.”

  “I’m not fucking driving.” His words sounded messy and barely coherent even to him. “I gotta piss.”

  It took all his remaining brain power to put one foot in front of the other, but he moved through the bar without a stumble. Barely.

  It wasn’t until the cool night air hit his face that he realized he was not in the men’s room.

  He rolled his head back to the sky and squeezed his hands into tight fists at his sides. “Fuuuuuuuuuck!”

  He took a breath and tried to regain some of the clarity he was attempting to drown in fermented liquid less than five minutes ago. Unfortunately, his equally over-served bladder couldn’t wait any longer. He blinked hard, trying to get a clear look at his surroundings.

  Cars were still moving up and down the road outside the bar and a few pedestrians were scattered on the sidewalk. Sitting in the darkened bar, he’d thought it was late, but maybe he was wrong.

  He looked around, his limited vision zoning in on a narrow alleyway that ran beside the block building that housed the bar and connected the downtown to a more residential area. That is where he would leave the contents of his bladder.

  Paul started to walk and realized that last drink, the one he took in one gulp to prove a point, was just beginning to slap him around. He had to use one hand to brace his tipping body against the building as he walked.

  Barely reaching the corner, Paul was thumbing the button of his jeans when he slammed into a guy coming down the narrow passage. The force of their bodies crashing together almost knocked him back on his ass. Luckily, one hand was still on the wall and he managed to keep himself upright.

  “Sorry.” Paul squinted as he tried to get a better look at the man standing in front of him. He looked almost like—

  “Sam?”

  The man’s eyes were wide as he looked from one side of Paul to the other.

  The motherfucker who ruined his life, stole his only chance at happiness, was looking for a way to run. Like a scared little girl. The combination of the narrow alley and the width of Paul’s shoulders left him no options besides turning to run, which had apparently not yet occurred to him.

  “You son of a bitch.” Paul swung as hard as he could, his body spinning with the momentum. He didn’t even get the chance to enjoy the thud as his fist connected with the man’s face before the whole world went black.

  NINETEEN

  Paul’s tongue was swollen and dry in his mouth. Almost as swollen and dry as the eyelids he had to peel open, making them scrape roughly against his corneas, to squint against the glaring sunlight.

  He looked around the cab of his truck. The grey block wall of the establishment where he spent his evening stared at him through the windshield. He remembered parking his truck in this spot and walking through the heavy metal door, but the rest of his night was pretty blurry, including how he ended up right back where he started.

  Running his hands over his eyes he tried to rub away the confusion and grit left from a night of heavy drinking.

  He grunted as the movement revealed a deep ache in his right hand. Holding it up in front of his face he slowly
opened and closed his fingers making a half-hearted fist. A faint bruise marred the top of his knuckles and the back of his palm. For a second, a hazy memory teased him from the edge of his mind.

  Just when it felt close enough to grasp, a torn square of college ruled paper tucked in between the buttons of his shirt stole his attention. Messy scrawls that ran perpendicular to the thin blue lines explained that his old drinking buddies found him passed out on the sidewalk and shoved him in his truck to sleep it off.

  They were also nice enough to leave a bottle of water on his dash.

  Throwing the note to the floorboards, he started to twist open the cap, forgetting his bruised hand until a stab of pain reminded him. He switched hands and chugged half the bottle, the water both soothing and burning his raw throat.

  He shouldn’t have gone to the bar last night. Or the night before for that matter, but at least then he held his liquor.

  Last night he was out of control. It was shameful. It was irresponsible. And it fixed nothing.

  He leaned his throbbing head back against the headrest. If anything, his little relapse only made things worse. He tipped the bottle to his lips and drank the rest, hoping the extra hydration would ease his roaring headache.

  The sun assaulting his eyes was also heating up the cab as it crept higher in the sky and the increasing warmth made him feel dangerously close to puking. He crammed his hand into his pocket praying his keys were still there. When his fingers raked across the grooved metal, he wanted to smile, but resisted. Any movement of his face would likely make his head explode.

  He shoved the key into the ignition and cranked them a half twist, his other hand pushing the window button at the same time. Cool outside air blew gently over his face. He took a deep breath, hoping to push down the urge to vomit as he tried to determine if he was still drunk.

  He must have dozed back off because the sound of a truck backing up beside him startled him awake, his head pulsing with each beep of the accompanying warning. At least this time, he felt a little better as he woke up, less sick and more coherent.

  The clock on his dash read 1:00.

  “Shit.”

  He turned the ignition the rest of the way over and searched the glove compartment for a pair of sunglasses. Normally he went without, but today they were necessary. More than.

  Shoving a pair of old, bent shades on his face, Paul backed out of the lot and went home intending to fall directly into bed and try like hell to sleep off the rest of this hangover. Unfortunately, a nagging memory, floating around in the back of his brain wouldn’t let him relax.

  He peeled off his clothes and threw the pile of crumpled bar stink into the basket before stepping under a screaming hot stream of water. He scrubbed the stale smell of bar and alcohol off his body as he tried to put the pieces of last night together, hoping it would bring what was worrying him into focus.

  He’d had too much that was for sure. He vaguely remembered being cut off. Did he try to leave?

  The thought bothered him. In all the nights he’d been overserved, never once did he try to get home behind the wheel. The thought that maybe he’d considered it last night filled him with shame.

  Why was he even there? To drink away his problems? He should know by now, that didn’t ever fucking work. They were all still here, and sometimes even worse. Like they could have been last night if he succeeded in getting behind the wheel.

  Best case scenario, he would have taken himself out. Worst case, someone else.

  Paul leaned one arm against the wall as he let the hot water stream over his body.

  What was he doing? Still punishing himself for letting Sam have Nancy? For not fighting harder for her? If only he’d had the balls, maybe her life would be different right now. Hell, he would have made sure her life was very different. He would never have slept with her sister for starters. Or threatened to kill her.

  His skin felt cold as ice even as the heat from the water turned it a deep pink as memories of last night began to trickle through his mind. He shut the faucet off and stared at the drops of water clinging to the tile as the full memory of last night came rushing back.

  Sam.

  Paul held up his hand. The bruise had darkened slightly and was creeping up his hand. What had he really seen in the alley? A man? A ghost? A hallucination?

  He stepped out of the shower and wrapped his towel around his waist before digging the jeans from last night out of the basket at the door. His phone was still in the back pocket. He walked into his bedroom and woke it up.

  No missed calls.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Paul stared at the screen. What did he expect? He tossed the phone on the blanket beside him and fell back against the mattress, squeezing his head between his hands.

  All this anger he had at Sam for hurting Nancy. All his boasting that he would have been better, loved her more, appreciated her.

  He was just as bad as Sam. Maybe worse.

  He needed to talk to her if she would let him. The chance was pretty slim, but he had to at least try this time instead of just giving up. He tugged on his clothes and almost ran for the door, hoping he hadn’t once again lost her. This time for good.

  ****

  The knees of Nancy’s jeans clung to her leg as the wetness from the grass transferred to the fabric. She gripped the clump of dandelions in her tulip bed, pulling and twisting at the same time. The greens snapped apart, leaving behind a wad of roots that would bloom again. Probably tomorrow.

  “Damn it.”

  She should go get her hand shovel. Actually she should go change into her work clothes and put on a pair of gloves. Nancy looked down at the smudges on her pants and the almost black dirt caked under her nails. She went back in for another clump. No point changing now. The damage was done.

  All she meant to do was drop her mail in the box and go back inside, but there was no way she could ignore the line of weeds staring her in the face as she walked back to the house.

  It was time for life to go back to normal. She had a garden to plant, a farm to help run, girls to watch, and flower beds to weed. It was a life most people would be happy to have. A life she should be happy to have. And she was… to a point.

  Nancy rocked back on her heels and swiped her forearm at a clump of hair trying to go up her nose. Maybe as time went on she would get back to a point where she was happy with her life, or at least satisfied.

  She reached for another, larger clump of weeks next to her favorite rose bush. She wrapped her fingers around and squeezed hard. The thorns from a hidden rose branch the weeds were wrapped around stabbed into her hand.

  “Son of a bitch!” She yanked her hand back just as the pinpricks of blood started to color the dirt covering her skin.

  “I deserve that.”

  Paul’s voice nearly made Nancy jump out of her skin, bringing her to her feet. She turned around before his presence even registered. Just barely.

  Her hand was beginning to throb and she could feel the blood slowly oozing out, but it was quickly being forgotten as an overwhelming mix of anger and sadness bubbled up through her. “Yes, you do.”

  For so long she imagined Paul as the man who would save her. Save her from the loneliness, the regret, the doubt. He’d done none of those things. If anything he’d reinforced them. Made her pain deeper. The loneliness, lonelier.

  She wanted to cry, but refused. She’d cried too many times already. She was done.

  “Why are you here?”

  Paul’s attention focused on her hands. “Are you bleeding?”

  “What?” She scoffed. He was going to show up unannounced, the first time she’d heard from him in over a week, and that was what he had to say?

  He pointed at her injured hand. “You’re bleeding.”

  She held the hand up. A small trickle made its way down her finger and was forming a drip off the tip. Nancy wiped it on her already dirty jeans. She’d throw them in the wash as soon as Paul left, which meant they’d be in before
the blood had a chance to dry. Especially since she was going to ask him some pretty hard questions.

  “Why are you here Paul? What do you want from me? You can’t keep doing this. I can’t—” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, resigned to her earlier commitment to not crying.

  “Nancy I want you.” He clenched his hands at his sides. “I always have.”

  She snorted. “Whatever.” She walked toward the porch steps. “I have stuff to do.”

  “I just don’t know that I can give you what you need.”

  Nancy leaned her head back and took a deep breath. Why in the hell would he drive all the way here to give her the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ speech? Probably hoping to keep in good standing with her spitfire of a future daughter-in-law.

  She turned to look over her shoulder at him. “And what is it you think I need from you?”

  His eyes darted from side to side as he licked his lips, his hands still in fists at his sides. “Can we go inside?”

  “For what Paul? You already said it. You can’t give me what I need. It’s fine. I’m a big girl.” Nancy turned away and headed up the steps. Her hand was on the door when his voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

  “I can’t make love to you.”

  She turned back to face him, narrowing her eyes. “You’re right about that one. That ship has sailed.” She felt sick to her stomach. All these years she’d built him up on a pedestal, but it turned out he was just like every other man. Only worried about his dick.

  His eyes widened and he shook his head. “No, no. No!” He put his hands up. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He dropped his hands and his shoulders slumped. “I mean I can’t. My…” He closed his eyes. “I just can’t.”

  Did he mean? Nancy thought back to their… interactions. She’d tried to touch him once. The last time she saw him. He’d pushed her hands away and insisted holding her was enough.