by Lilly Wilde
After dinner, Dad mentions a diner that’s hiring. He knows the owner and can put in a good word for me. Although he doesn’t suspect the pay is great, he says if I make nice and smile real pretty, the tips alone should bring in decent earnings.
Make nice? Smile real pretty? Fat chance of that shit happening. I can barely manage a decent conversation with folks nowadays. Piling on the extras requires a bout of energy I can’t afford to extend.
I later learn Aunt Sophie is on the church’s prayer team with some woman by the name of Jolene. She’s married to the owner of the diner. So Dad’s pretty sure that between him and my aunt, the job is mine if I want it. Not that I have aspirations of waiting tables, but it’s better than having repeated handouts from a man I’m not quite sure I can consider a father. Not only that, I need to save up enough money for a lawyer to get Ethan in court. He swore if we ever broke up, he would do right by CeeCee. But like everything else with Ethan Tyler, it was a lie.
Naïve. That’s one word to sum up the person I was when I met Ethan. But never again. Never again will I fall for smooth lines and pipe dreams. And never again will I look for happy endings and rainbows. Why would I expect those given how my life started? I figure it will end much the same as it began—hard and hopeless. Happy endings and knights in shining armor. Bullshit like that simply isn’t meant for a girl like me.
In the span of six months, all the baby weight I’d lost is back plus a few extra pounds for good measure. That’s what depression can do for ya, I guess. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, wishing I were that size five again. To actually wear the outfits I want, instead of those that hide what I don’t want to see.
I let out a sigh and head to the kitchen for breakfast. I’m hoping Aunt Sophie has left for her church group, but no such luck—she’s still in the kitchen when I sit at the table.
“Are you sure you should eat that?” she asks, watching me pile food onto my plate.
I look up at her judgmental grimace. “If you didn’t want me to eat it, then why did you cook it?”
“For your uncle and your father. I always prepare this for Stan when he leaves for long trips. It’s sort of our tradition. And since David is heading out on the road with him, I figured he’d enjoy it, too,” she says and removes the plate of flapjacks and bacon. “I prepared this for you.”
I look down at the banana, strawberries, and whole wheat toast.
“Less calories,” she says and tosses the pancakes and bacon into the trash.
I push back from the table. “I’ll grab something at work.”
“Suit yourself, Ragan. I’m only trying to help. You need a husband and Cecelia needs a father. You won’t find either looking like that.”
“You know, Aunt Sophie, you haven’t changed a bit.”
She gives me the once-over and frowns. “Neither have you.”
I hate to leave CeeCee with my wretch of an aunt, but she adores my daughter, and although it took a while for it to happen, CeeCee seems to like her, too. I give my baby girl a goodbye kiss and head out the door.
I settle into my 2008 Jeep Liberty, pull on my seatbelt, and start the ignition. My phone beeps and I look to see a text from Ethan. It’s the same lie he’s been repeating for months. He’s sorry and wants to start over. I delete the message and toss the phone into my bag.
And then, instead of backing out of the driveway, I sit and stare through the windshield, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I study the red brick house with its outdated white shutters. The house I grew up in. The house that scarred my mind and my body. And without notice, I start to cry.
I can’t believe this is my life. I just can’t. That’s when I realize how much I hate the existence that is Ragan Prescott. I hate what it’s become. I hate it all… my appearance, my finances, my joke of a family, my endless suffering. Even getting out of bed each morning has become an unnecessary encumbrance. Death has to be easier.
But I fight the urge to take the easy way out. I have to… for her, for my sweet baby Cecelia. If she were not my sole reason to keep breathing, I wouldn’t. I’d make certain my second attempt at suicide was successful.
The first time I tried to leave this world behind, it was because of Cassidy. I was twelve years old, and all I could think of was getting out. Getting away from that sadistic monster. Not hurting anymore. Not being beaten down anymore.
I’d locked the door to Cassidy and Dad’s bathroom and grabbed three bottles of pills from the medicine cabinet. I sorted through the prescriptions, gathered about twenty pills, and I swallowed every one. The next day, I awoke in a hospital bed, disappointed to find I was still alive and immediately given the scare speech from Cassidy. And then, without bothering to ask how I was feeling, she began prepping me on how to answer any questions about my overdose.
I later muddled off Cassidy’s version of the incident to both the police and a social worker. I’d said I’d taken the pills by mistake. Which they were either too stupid or too oblivious to question.
Before I was discharged, the doctor said the combination of drugs I’d taken was enough to kill a horse. But for some reason, I’d survived. And to this day, I don’t understand why.
January 16, 2017
THE RING-A-LING OF THE DOOR chime signals the official start of my day. I stand in the entryway, my gaze fluttering over the space that within two weeks has already become too familiar. The 1950s rock-and-roll motif, the old-school jukebox bellowing the tunes of Chuck Berry’s “Maybelline,” black-and-white-checkered tile flooring, and themed seating areas all scream Happy Days. The only thing missing is Fonzie and his equally hot cousin Chachi.
I smooth down my felt poodle skirt and let out a breath, sending a silent prayer that today treats me better than yesterday. Scanning the dining area, I take in the regulars. Cassandra in the Little Richard booth slumped over her MacBook—more than likely OD’ing on caffeine as she cranks out her next article for the local paper. Ronnie at his usual table, gnawing at a corn cob. Mel at the counter, nursing a black coffee. The little old ladies from Aunt Sophie’s church group sitting shoulder to shoulder in the Elvis Presley booth, eating muffins and sipping tea. And other familiar faces scattered throughout the space. It’s uncanny. A place like this having regulars. Not that the diner is all that crummy, but other than the decades-old theme, it’s nothing to write home about. Maybe that’s why folks like it. It’s not pretentious or overpriced. It’s merely an extension of most homes here in Blue Ridge.
“Hey, Carrie,” I say, giving my coworker a quick smile as I stroll past her to my locker.
“Happy Hump Day, Ragan,” she says, all bright and bouncy as usual.
I don’t see what’s so happy about it. And as for humping, there’s no bumping or grinding on my horizon unless I do it to my pillow. And call me crazy, but I don’t find that too appealing.
I tie an apron around my waist, check for my pen and pad, then head back to the counter with perky-ass Carrie. Although I’ve come to genuinely like her, I’m so not in the frame of mind for perky today.
I guess she senses my mood because she dials it down a notch and we busy ourselves with prepping the silverware as she fills me in on her mama’s bingo palooza night. I don’t add much dialogue, just a nod or uh-huh here and there.
We fall into a routine of my placing a fork, spoon, and knife in the center of a napkin, and Carrie rolls the bundle and secures it with a paper ring. She doesn’t seem to mind keeping the conversation going while I remain silent. She’s yet to zip her lips and chatters away as we fold the remaining silverware into the napkins. Then midsentence, she suddenly falls quiet. I look up from the bundles to find her eyes pinned to the door, her bright red-coated lips partially spread.
“As I live and breathe. Look who just stepped into Jim Bob’s Diner,” she says, her voice a mix of awe and lust.
I follow her gaze and nearly choke, almost swallowing my gum. Holy shit! Is that…? No. It can’t be. I squeeze my lids on a long blink. When I op
en my eyes, he’s still there. The star of Blue Ridge… standing in Jim Bob’s Diner. Holy fucking shit! It’s Branch McGuire. Flanked by a group of muscle heads, just like in high school. And also just like in high school, Branch is hotter than all of them put together. And not the typical football player kind of hot. He’s the make-you-come-just-by-standing-too-close kind of hot.
Branch is a pretty big deal in this town. Hell, he’s a pretty big deal in any town. If anyone even mentions the word football, his name is close behind. He’s that hot of a commodity, and given the overconfident swagger and cocksure set of his shoulders, he knows it. No surprise there.
He was a conceited asshat in high school and he’s undoubtedly several times worse now. Nonetheless, I have to give credit where it’s due. I follow the game enough to know the attention he receives on the field is well-deserved. With six Pro Bowls, MVP awards, record-breaking completion percentages, and most touchdown passes to date, he’s one of the most sought-after quarterbacks in the NFL. According to a commentator from last week’s game, Branch can write his ticket to any team in the league. So yeah, he’s quite impressive, both on the field and off.
“Lord have mercy,” Carrie whispers, fanning herself with one of Jim Bob’s menus.
I glance at her again. She’s practically bursting at the seams. Sometimes I forget she’s married, and I have a feeling she does, too. I shake my head, watching as she adjusts her boobs in the low-cut shirt that hugs her frame a little bit more than what’s acceptable for work. Jim Bob’s almost daily reprimands about her so-called uniform have obviously fallen on deaf ears.
Carrie slides her tongue across her lip. “The things I’d do to that fine piece of man would get me arrested.”
“What about divorced? How about that?” I ask. “Or is prison your only concern?”
She rolls her eyes and waves me off.
I turn my focus back to Branch, assessing each aspect of his appearance. The gray compression shirt that clings to every muscle of his chiseled torso. The short sleeves that reveal a portion of his tattoos. The trim waist. The loose gym shorts that commit the godawful act of underexposing the thick bands of muscle that run along his thighs.
So hot.
Too hot.
My eyes crawl up his body, only to repeat the same delicious trail downward again. This time, at a much slower pace, I take it all in… the face, the chest, the arms, the thighs… everything. Fucking gorgeous.
Branch works the crowd, grinning as he signs autographs and poses for pictures. All the while, my gaze remains firmly fixed on him—my heart hammering, my palms sweaty, my mouth bone dry. I wonder if I appear as shell-shocked as Carrie. Fuck, I hope not. But I sure as hell feel as if I do.
After acknowledging a few more admirers, and giving a brief statement to Cassandra for the paper, Branch and his boys walk toward one of the tables and take their seats. In my station. Mine.
Wait. What?
A surge of anxiety twists my stomach. I cannot serve Branch McGuire. I won’t. I turn to Carrie, prepared to ask her to take my station, but one of her more impatient customers waves a hand, requesting his check, and she hurries off in his direction.
My eyes flash back to Branch and his buddies. The Quad. That’s what they were known as back then. Each one of them hot, lewd, and egotistical. And leopards like that don’t change their spots. Dealing with one of them would be a challenge. But all four? I’ll take a hard pass. They’re in my station though. And my shift is starting right now, so I can’t very well take a break. I suppose I could ask Jim Bob to cover their table. I dismiss that thought almost as quickly as it popped into my head. No way would he do that for me, especially considering the number of free meals he’s had to fork over because of my less-than-stellar skills as a waitress.
I catch a view of my appearance in the Coca-Cola mirror that doubles as a clock. And as expected, I look a mess—a few locks of hair tucked behind my ears and the rest in a Barbie ponytail gone wrong. Not that it matters. A guy like Branch won’t do more than look right through me.
“Are you going to wait on that table or stand here staring at your reflection?” Jim Bob asks, having come to see what all the fuss is about—the noise in the diner is about ten decibels higher since Branch’s arrival.
“Sorry,” I say and grab four menus and take the reluctant steps toward the Quad.
“Welcome to Jim Bob’s,” I say when I come to a stop at their table and distribute the menus, keeping my head low, avoiding direct eye contact with any of them… especially Branch. “Can I start you off with something to drink?”
“Beer,” they say, almost in unison.
Kinda early for beer, but if it gives me a reason to place some distance between this group and me, I’ll take it. “Look over the menus and I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
“Wait a minute, sugar.”
Oh shit. It’s Branch. I inhale a breath and turn, my gaze still cast downward as much as possible without looking too much like a total psycho.
“Aren’t you going to look at me?” he asks.
I wasn’t planning on it. I need to look up, to meet his gaze, but I stall. Will he recognize me? Will he remember that night? Then I realize someone as arrogant as Branch would never remember someone like me, so I lift my eyes to his.
Sweet fuck. I damn near swallow my gum again. As if he wasn’t already emanating I-can-have-any-pussy-I-want vibes from a distance, being up close is like he’s pulling your thighs apart, cupping your sex, and claiming it as his. Some men simply possess that type of power, and Branch is one of those men. It’s kind of like when the citizens of Gotham cast the bat symbol—the criminals freak out and then Batman comes and does his thing. Well, in this case, Branch sends out Man on Fire signals and pussies in the immediate vicinity start to purr. And by purr, I mean wet panties. And by wet panties, I mean I’m gonna need to change mine after he leaves because my kitty is purring like a well-tuned engine on the motor speedway right about now. So yeah, he’s definitely the make-you-come-just-by-standing-too-close kind of hot.
My eyes fall to the pad in my hand. Stop it, Ragan. You can do this. Meet his gaze. See what he wants, and step away from the cock. Yeah, I know he’s more than cock, but when a pussy is purring the way mine is, that’s all you can think of. Well, that and how to get a release. Suddenly, humping my pillow doesn’t seem so far-fetched.
He’s waiting. They all are. So look at him. I can do that. Yes, I can do that. Too bad I don’t. On the way up, I get distracted, my gaze sliding over the biceps of his tattooed arm—his muscles are even bigger up close, and that poor shirt he’s wearing doesn’t stand a chance. It’s practically a second layer of skin. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. Where is Carrie when I need her?
“My eyes are up here, sweetheart,” Branch says, and the table erupts into laughter.
Ha ha ha. Very funny, asshat. As with most hot guys, it would appear Branch is much hotter with his mouth closed. I look up from where my eyes should not have been and swallow. There goes my gum.
His eyes caught me off guard. They’re breathtaking. A brilliant blue. A clear blue. Like the close-up shots in the movies, the ones of the crystal clear waters of the Caribbean. Sure, like most of the world, I’ve seen Branch in magazines and on TV, but damn, they sure skimmed on the detail. I remember studying his features in high school, but they’ve matured over the years, his jawline more defined, his cheekbones more angular. His hair is still that dirty blond that matches his thick brows. And his eyes were always captivating, but now even more so. And those lips… just kill me now. They’re the exact amount of plump to make a girl get lost in fantasies about how they’ll feel pressed up against hers. All in all, the total package is positively mouthwatering. “Did you need something else?” I somehow manage to ask.
“Aren’t you going to ask what kind of beer we want?”
“No,” I reply, and glance down again, pretending to scribble something on my pad.
“And why is that?”
He drops his menu and rears back in his seat, his eyes roaming over my face as if he’s expecting something he didn’t get.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, my attitude making an appearance to overshadow the insecurities.
“I was about to ask you the same question, darlin’.”
First it was sugar. Then sweetheart. Now darlin’. I like it because those words slipping from his lips somersault my insides. I don’t like it because I’m almost certain those are his generic pet names for all women. Well, not for me. “My name tag reads Ragan.”
“Guess she told you, Branch,” one of his buddies says and chuckles as the others join in on the laugh.
Branch throws a glance at them and his eyes are back on me, flashing a smile that squares his jaw. His lips spread over perfectly white teeth that could easily dazzle every woman in this diner all at once. And probably some of the guys, too, I figure, thinking of Ronnie, one of our regulars. Yeah, Branch would bedazzle the hell out of him.
Branch glances at my name tag and his eyes flash back to mine. For a long beat, there’s nothing. He simply stares. But why? Does he remember me? Nah, that can’t be it. Is he into me? That certainly isn’t it. Oh fuck. Say something already. But he doesn’t. So I stand there, my body prickling under his gaze. “Is there anything else? If not, I need to grab those beers.”
With a shake of his head, he rakes his eyes over me again, taking in what I know is a disheveled heap that’s only marginally passing as a waitress. Why, oh, why couldn’t this have been Carrie’s table?
