Perfectly Damaged

by E. L. Montes

  I snort. “That’s never happening.”

  I’ve dated before, plenty of women. And every time a chick and I made our relationship more than just sex, I was never unfaithful. Why hunt for the meal when it’s already cooked and waiting for you at home? That’s my motto. But my exes know me. They know I’m not a clinger, nor am I the jealous type, and I couldn’t give two fucks what the hell they wear. I’m also not one of those freaky, possessive alpha-male types that demands to know where their woman is at all times. I consider myself laid-back. My exes consider me indifferent.

  But that’s neither here nor there. All I’m saying is that—okay, maybe I didn’t give a shit half the time, but I was always faithful. Did I ever have a true interest in furthering a relationship? No. It just always turned out that way, more from convenience than anything else. It wasn’t that I didn’t like or respect my girlfriends, I did. I just didn’t really want anything more from them. So with that said, shouldn’t I at least get some type of honorary certificate or something? It can read, “This honorary certificate goes to Logan Reed, who’s not so much of a douchebag after all,” and I can pin that shit to my wall.

  Santino mumbles something with his mouth full. I don’t understand shit he just said. “Come again?” I ask.

  He guzzles back his beer to wash down his last bite. “What’s this new job we’re starting on Monday?”

  Bryson cuts in; he knows more than I do. “The McDaniels’ property. We’re working on a two thousand-square-foot guesthouse beside a pool.”

  Santino whistles. “I swear these rich people have so much damn money, they can’t think of anything else to do with it. Give me some of it; I can put it to good use.” He leans back in the booth, smiling at himself.

  “Yeah, you’d use it all on girls, food, and booze,” I say.

  Santino nods. “This is true. Maybe I should start playing the lottery.”

  “Anyway,” Bryson adds, “they want their daughter, Jenna—I think that’s her name—involved one hundred percent. Supposedly, it’s a surprise for her twenty-second birthday in October. She doesn’t realize Mommy and Daddy are basically building her a house.”

  Santino squints. “In their backyard?” He laughs. “That’s not really letting her spread her wings. Is she at least hot?”

  Yeah, she’s hot. I’m instantly reminded of last night when Jenna and I tongue fucked on her front porch—after I saved her life and she basically bitched me out for it. In a weird way, it was kind of hot. Having a sexy woman in a bikini tell me off and then beg for a kiss? Hot. First impressions are very important, in my opinion. And she put down the fucking wild card on that one. I didn’t know what to make of her, but after she implied that I was gay, I had to show her how straight I truly am—nothing against gay guys and all. Everyone has their preferences, and mine are simple: women.

  And Jesus Christ, can Jenna kiss. I can still taste and feel her lips. I did it to prove a point, but after our lips made contact I was done for; I couldn’t control myself at all. She was hesitant at first—even though it was her idea. She got the push she needed, though, when I shoved my tongue into her mouth. She let out a slight moan, which only fed my fire. My hand found its way to her perfect little ass, and the rest—well, let’s just say if that douche, Matthew, never interrupted us, I probably could’ve gotten her past a few bases right there on her front porch.

  “Yeah. She’s hot,” I answer Santino.

  Bryson looks at me. “How would you know? You weren’t at the meeting with Pop and me.”

  “Your father asked me to pick up the toolbox you left behind. Let’s just say I was properly introduced to her.”

  “Ooh,” Santino lets out excitedly. I nod at him, letting him know that whatever thoughts he’s thinking right now may or may not be true, depending how far his thoughts are going.

  “Logan, you know the rules.” Bryson kills the slight buzz I have from my third beer. He always has to turn his ethical-professional-bullshit cap on.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off. This night is going nowhere. I look around the place and spot the redhead, who’s leaning against the bar, staring directly at me. She waves with a smile. I grin back and stand. “I’ll be back,” I tell Bryson and Santino and head her way.

  “I can’t help but notice we have a problem.” I slide onto a stool right next to her and get an eyeful of those big—

  “Oh? And what is that?” She says in a sexy tone, looking straight ahead.

  “We can’t keep our eyes off each other.”

  Redhead’s back is flush against the bar. A smile creeps up the corner of her lips. Turning her head, she looks at me. “That is a problem. What are you going to do about it?”

  I lean in closer. “I think I have a few things in mind. What time does your shift end?”

  She doesn’t blink. Leaning in fully to me, her lips almost touch mine. “In a half hour,” she breathes out.

  “A half hour it is then.”

  “Your orders are ready, Tammy,” Tony says from behind the bar. Redhead, who now has a name, turns around and grabs the filled tray. She winks and then carries on.

  I check her out as she walks away before straightening in my seat to face Tony. Tony is Uncle George’s good friend and owner of this small bar. Tony shakes his head at my victory grin. “You’re in the wrong business, son.” He tosses a towel, aiming for my face, but I catch it in time.

  “Yeah, and what kind of business should I be in?”

  His stubby hands lay flat on top of the bar. “Male escort.”

  We both chuckle at this. It’s ridiculous. “You have to be a pretty boy for that shit. I’m far from it.”

  “You’d be surprised. More and more girls are into this.” He waves a hand between us, shrugging in the process. “Scruffy, bad boy, tattoos. It’s a cliché role.”

  I snort. “Is that what I am? A walking cliché?” I shake it off. “I have sex for pleasure, not for money.”

  “Touché. How are you guys getting home?” he asks while removing the cap of a summer lager. He passes it to me and I tilt the bottle in salute to show my gratitude before taking a sip.

  “Santino drove with Bryson. I have my truck.”

  “Are you guys all right to drive?” I grip the beer bottle, trying to mask my irritation.

  I was in a good mood until he asked that question. I know this is what Tony does. He makes sure we’re okay. He’s been here for most of our lives and cares for my family—especially Bryson and me—as if we’re his own. But with the two-year anniversary of my brother’s death right around the corner, I feel offended. Maybe it’s the three beers kicking in or the fact that I’m still fucking annoyed due to the mega-bitch convo with Bryson. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but my emotions are quickly stirring. “I’m not Sean,” I finally blurt out, staring straight ahead and clenching my fist on the bar.

  Tony’s features transform into shock. “I didn’t mean it that way, son. You know I wouldn’t. I’m just looking out for you guys. I would never cross that line, Logan. I hope you know that, right?”

  Fuck me. I feel like an even bigger douche bag. I guess I don’t deserve the honorary certificate after all. I wave my hand. “Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it. That was out of line for me to say. I’m sorry, Tony.”

  I thank him for the beer again, return to the booth with the other guys, and sip on the rest of my last beer until Tammy’s shift is over.

  What the hell! This time I royally screwed up. My uncle is going to kill me. Even after the long speech he gave me a few days ago, I just can’t listen, can I? “You have to be more responsible,” he said. “You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” he said. “Simply put, you need to grow the hell up, Logan.” I’m sure drinking the entire weekend and picking up a girl from the bar—who I fucked until she’d forgotten her own name and is currently sleeping in my bed at this very moment—was not part of his let’s-save-Logan speech.

  Grunting, I run a hand over my face, hop out of bed, and to
ss on jeans and the first T-shirt that doesn’t smell. Tammy, from the bar, is still here. I’m already late, so I quickly prod at her shoulder. “Get up.”

  She stretches with a yawn. “What time is it?”

  I walk back into the room with her clothes. “It’s time for you to leave,” I say, tossing her things on top of the bed.

  She flashes her eyes open and groans, quickly shutting them again. “Ah, shut off the light!”

  “No lights are on. That’s daylight coming in. I need you to get up and leave. I’m running late for work. Hurry up.”

  Tammy sluggishly sits up, places her arms through the sleeve of her shirt, and narrows her stare at me. “Could you be any ruder?”

  “Please,” I say. There. Is that polite enough for her? If it were any other day, I would’ve let her stay awhile. I would’ve even bought her breakfast, but if I’m any later, my uncle will fire me for sure this time.

  Ten minutes later, I hop into my truck, start the engine, and head for Haddonfield, New Jersey. As I enter I-95 from the Woodhaven ramp, my phone goes off. Shit. It’s Bryson. “What’s up?” I answer, merging into the left lane.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “I know.” I glance in my rearview mirror and then back to the road ahead. “I’m running late.” My foot presses down on the gas pedal. It’s over a forty-five minute drive to Haddonfield from Philly, depending on traffic. I need to speed the hell up.

  “You’re fucking lucky Dad’s not here. He had a consultation for another job in Royersford this morning. He just texted me that he’s finishing up now and will be on his way. I suggest you get here—fast—before he does.”

  There is a God. I gun it, pushing the speedometer to almost ninety. “Thanks, Bry. I owe you one.”

  A snort erupts through the speaker. “Yeah, one of many. And you better not be speeding. If you lose your license again, I won’t be your personal chauffeur this time.”

  I let him slide on that one and we end our call. Over the past couple years Bryson has done more for me than anyone else. He’s more than just my cousin; he’s my brother and best friend. We grew up living next door to each other, learning the importance of family from an early age. After Sean died, our relationship could have gone either way, but thanks to Bryson’s support and loyalty, we’re closer than ever.

  Finally, I reach the McDaniels’ home and pull into their massive driveway. I cut the engine off, hop out of the truck, and hustle toward the back of the house. I’m walking along a pathway that leads past the scandalous front porch—just the sight of which brings a smug grin to my face—around a small pond, and through a landscaped grove of trees when I nearly trip over my own two feet and face-plant onto the perfectly manicured lawn.

  The source of my smug grin only moments before is right ahead of me, and she hasn’t seen me yet. Jenna. Her back is to me as she makes her way down the path, so I do what any guy would do and take a moment to appreciate what’s in front of me. Her cinnamon hair is tossed in a high bun on top of her head and a loose blue shirt falls off her left shoulder. Very tight jean shorts reveal the curves of her very fine, perfectly shaped ass. An ass I had the pleasure of groping just a few days ago. She seems to struggle with carrying a large box. I, being the gentleman I choose to be at times, jog to catch up with her, but before I can reach her, the box slips from her hands, spilling all the contents to the ground.

  “Fuck!” she shouts. Her head swivels as she surveys the mess, and she huffs once before bending over to pick up what appear to be painting supplies.

  I smile. She’s in the perfect position for me to fully check her out. So I do. Again. After my peep show, I kneel down and grab a few paintbrushes from the ground. “I wouldn’t have expected the first word popping out of your mouth to be fuck. You just don’t seem like that kind of girl.”

  Brown eyes pin mine. “Yeah? And what kind of girl do I seem to be?” Her eyes tell me she’s amused, but her tone tells me otherwise. Does she ever smile? This is the second time I’ve seen her, and both times she’s given me dirty looks— attractive dirty looks, but dirty looks all the same.

  My lips form a lopsided grin. “Hmm…dammit. Yeah.” I nod, sure of my assessment. “You seem more like a dammit kind of girl.”

  Jenna rolls her eyes. She quickly gathers the rest of her art supplies and tosses them into the box before standing and resting the package on her left hip. “Too bad you don’t know two fucks about me.”

  I laugh. I have a major smartass on my hands. That’s okay; it’s just going to take a little longer to lighten this one up a bit.

  I’ve been around a lot of women, so I’m able to tell one type apart from another. Jenna’s type is daring. They’re smart, snarky wiseasses. They live for a challenge and love being right. But they’re also—no matter what—women. And women can be sweet-talked at any moment.

  I lean into her. She steps back. I smile.

  There’s just enough sun to fully take her in. Jenna’s eyes, man, they’re something. It’s not the cute button nose, the soft, plump lips that I had the pleasure of tasting, or the even, golden skin tone that compels me. All of these features are striking, sure, but her eyes… Jenna’s eyes are exotic, stunning. There seems to be an untold story hidden behind those large, almond-shaped beauties. The mystery of those eyes…

  I lean my head in close to her. Really close. Jenna’s lashes flutter, with wide eyes stunned. An extensive grin spreads across my face. “Ah, but if my memory serves me correctly, I know exactly how you taste.” Her breath catches; she seems to be at a loss for words. Score. I lift my hand and twirl one of the paintbrushes I’m still holding. “And it seems to me that I just learned you like to paint.” Her eyes narrow and her nostrils lightly flare as she snatches the brush out of my hand. She opens her mouth to say something but shuts it when we hear someone else call my name.

  “Logan?” Bryson walks up beside us. Eyes still on Jenna, I straighten my shoulders, flash her a knowing grin, and then turn to face my cousin.

  “What’s up?”

  He raises a questioning brow and glances over at Jenna. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Let’s get to work.” I clasp his shoulder and start walking, guiding him toward the site.

  “What was that about?” he asks quietly.

  I turn my head and look at Jenna who’s still standing there breathing heavily with the box glued to her hip. I wink at her and turn right back around. “Nothing. I was just helping her with a few things she accidently dropped.”

  He grips my shoulder and leans in. “Logan, not here. This is work. Keep it like that. You understand?”

  I shrug off his hold. I know what he means. I don’t like it, but I understand. “Yeah, I understand.”

  It’s not like we’d have more than just that one kiss on her front porch anyway.

  Logan looks back at me as he walks away with the other contractor. He shoots me a wink before turning his attention back to the path. “Nothing. I was just helping her with a few things she accidently dropped,” I hear him say.

  Exactly. Nothing is going on between us, and Logan better keep that in mind the next time he invades my personal space. A few days ago, I asked for it; I knew what I was getting myself into. Well, I wasn’t expecting for his kiss to be so powerful and scorching hot. Still, that was on my terms. I was in control. Sort of. I couldn’t foresee that I would enjoy the taste of him, the smell of him, the way he held me firmly against his chest, how strong his arms felt wrapped securely around me, or how, for a short moment within that one kiss, I forgot who I was. The world around us was completely still. I was lost in the arms of a complete stranger. That’s what bothers me most: him. He bothers me. I know nothing about him, so how the hell could he make me feel so alive, so at peace, so…safe?

  It’s infuriating, not to mention unrealistic. The whole thing must have been a fluke brought on by the anxiety of everything that occurred prior to seeing him: the scene in Dr. Rosario’s office the day before, losing the
bracelet, him diving into the pool, Matthew walking up when he was the last person in the world I wanted to see. Logan was there, and I took advantage of that by kissing him. But I kissed him to get rid of Matthew; I didn’t realize kissing him would rid me of all my thoughts as well.

  The stubble of his growing beard was rough, yet the kiss felt soft.

  His arms were confident, yet I felt vulnerable in his hold.

  His touch was unfamiliar, yet it felt right within the split seconds of that kiss.

  The memory shivers through me. I shake it off, adjust the box in my hands, and continue on my route toward the shed.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m standing before three easels, all holding a different canvas painting. Old ones, of course, since I still can’t find the desire to actually create anything. Maybe by taking time to admire my previous work, I’ll find a sense of inspiration again. All three of the pieces in front of me have a sacred place in my heart. Each has its own story, its own venture and journey, which represents a specific time and place in my life.

  My eyes settle on the first one and I chuckle softly. It’s one of my very first pieces. For my tenth birthday, my father purchased my first art set, complete with several sized canvases, paintbrushes, and colors.

  As any little girl would, I hugged my father tightly, shouted my thanks, and ran to my room to begin my artistic adventure. I was never a pink hearts and flowers kind of girl, so hours later, I presented him with what I thought at the time was a masterpiece. Splashes of red and orange with swirls of grey and blue colored the canvas. My father ogled the small painting with seriousness reserved for courtrooms and boardrooms. I stood before him with my hands clenched behind me, rocking in place. The waiting was excruciating for a ten-year-old. I remember thinking: Will he like it? Does he think it’s hideous? Am I good enough? Those feelings instantly faded the moment my father looked at me with wide brown eyes and a genuine smile. “It’s the best painting I’ve ever seen.”

  I doubt it was the best, but it made my heart warm at the thought. A month before that same birthday, he took me to an art show where I witnessed the artist create her work from the start. Brooke was sick with a cold and unfortunately stayed home. My father held my hand as I watched closely with wide eyes from behind a rope. My mother stood beside my father with her hands folded neatly before her. The artist, in her safe, small circle, stared at the canvas intensely for what seemed like hours. Then she began to scream and shout, dipping the brushes into different colored containers and splashing them against her large canvas.