by S. J. Blaze
Honestly, Coen hasn’t even crossed my mind in the five days since I left his house. The man that was everywhere I turned has suddenly been swallowed back into the ‘never knew he existed’ pile. No cocky stares. No quirky smiles. And certainly no yummy fuzzy scruffy have made an appearance.
Instead, I’ve buried myself in the world of work and make believe. Not that the two go hand in hand, mind you, but it exists on this new Coen free plane I’ve created. I’ll be the first to admit, not thinking about Coen Collins while working on the Collins contracts, is a little challenging but I’ve held my own.
I remove my glasses and squeeze the bridge of my nose. The pulsing behind my eyes is compounding at an alarming rate and I deem this a medical emergency. I need meds stat. Since this is our first face-to-face exchange, the CC team and I, and Lori, the legal aid I brought over, my fight night injuries work to my advantage. And I greedily take their sympathy if it gets me out of here.
“Excellent progress. I suggest that we welcome any advice from council on how to progress. Please refer to the addendum on CVR and connect with Darrien on how to proceed with the transaction bundle.” I look over the table and see nods of agreement. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see a man about some stitches.” I chuckle, so they think the story I told them about my clumsy fall off the curb when I went running last weekend, is legit, and that they’re privy to some inside joke.
I ask Lori to stay in case anything is finalized during my absence and meander down the hall towards the elevator, when some curly blonde hair catches my eye. The sight of him alone is enough to freeze me to the spot, but it’s the woman on his arm who captures my attention.
She’s classically dressed in a short Valentino long sleeved dress in flower prints with matching boots. She’s elegant and adorable. Her hair is an inverted chocolate bob with bangs that feature her blue eyes, not icy blue like the man next to her, but a darker deeper shade. She’s scary thin, not at all curvy like I am. And she’s tall. She has a tiny nose and thin straight lips that are garnished with an audacious red coating. The lipstick color is fitting for her, but on Coen, not so much.
It would appear that Mr. Collins has been doing more than lunch in his office this afternoon.
We connect, my fucking ass.
Difficult.
That fucking cocky ass, made me hate that fucking word. Made me loath myself for being so reasonable.
I haven’t slept since that Coen difficult montage started circling in my head on a continuous fucking loop.
And he’s getting lunch?
Red fucking lipstick lunch?
In his office?
She’s laughing and touching his chest. Her claw-like fingers with long painted nails in the same slut color digging into his heart. He smiles his quirky smile and rubs some of the smeared lipstick off. Letting his thumb, the one he kept wrapping around my neck, touching my cheek with, feel her pale completely un-sun kissed skin.
I bet he didn’t tell her that she was being difficult.
God, I hate that fucking word!
I need to move. I can’t stand here watching them be all canoodle-y. My stomach is churning.
Jesus, it has been so long since I’ve felt duped. Suckered. Tears are burning my eyes and I blink to try to encourage them to abort mission. My nose sniffles and that soft sound, out of every clatter and verbal white noise in the building, is heard.
By the wrong person.
His eyes widen and he immediately stops touching Bombshell Non-Boob Betty. He pales. Oh wonderful, now he and his slut partner match in coloring.
Gathering whatever cool points I have stored for a rainy day, I ever so casually finish walking down the hall and to the elevator. There aren’t many escape routes on the thirty-fourth floor, so I thought this move seemed the most viable, although I did briefly consider jumping out of the window.
I pretend to have only just noticed him and his slut du joir. I press the down button and smile.
“Mr. Collins, it’s LOVE-ly,” yes, I’m using that word on purpose because he deserves the dig, “to see you again.” I pull out every drop of charm I can muster. And I blink, like I’m thrilled to be in this Cocky son of a bitch’s presence.
Then the shit hits the fan. Stick figure Betty smiles, leans down to ‘my’ height, and says, “Aren’t you just the cutest?” She then turns to Coen. “What a wonderful company you have here to help these young individuals with those ‘special needs’ I keep hearing of.” Then she kisses him in front of me.
And there’s more. She’s back to me. Again with the lean. “Oh honey, did you get a boo boo? I think I have some gum. Would you like some gum?”
Why is she trying to give me candy?
And it looks like I’ll be taking the stairs.
Coen is a fucking statue. He looks so lost.
Yeah, well fuck you!
I nod once, my facial features tight and drawn. There are simply no words.
I push open the heavy metal door that’s leading away from this debacle. I’d open the gates of hell if I had to, in order to get away from this fucked up shit. Besides, I need to burn this energy off before it gets the better of me. I’m a runner. I have an endless endurance and like to move. So speed and stairs become my two best friends. One floor down into my descent I hear that POS yelling my name.
Too late, Cocky. Too late.
Chapter Seven
I wander aimlessly and numb. Somehow, I make it to my appointment on time for the removal of my stitches, and since my brain is semi-operable, I decide it’s better not to be home right now.
But I’m tired and drained.
I make my way across town to Gunner’s. I’ve seen the black Town Car several times in the last week, and although I don’t believe he’s watching me now, I’m not risking a Coen encounter.
Gun opens the door looking like he’s just woken up, even though it’s nearly four in the afternoon. His black hair is sticking out in random places and sleep lines map out his pillow position. Though his piercings are still in place, he looks more human without all of the extra jewelry he wears on stage. Gunner is rock and roll. It isn’t just something he does, it’s who he is.
It defines him.
He’s in charge of all our online merchandise and most local bookings, though we have a manager. Basically, he gets to do whatever the hell he wants, when he wants. The life of a rocker.
He pulls me in and kisses my head. “Baby girl. Whatcha doing here on a school day? You skipping?” His chuckle reverberates through his chest. It’s so easy to love on some Gunner.
I squeeze him tighter and rub my face against his bare chest. My guys rarely wear clothes and I’ve seen every part of skin that God gave them, and the fairy inkers tatted.
After he gives me some clothes to change into, we spend the rest of the day on his couch, eating stale nachos and flat soda. He asks me about Coen, or the ‘preppy shit’ I was hanging out with Friday night. I tell him everything, even the ugly parts from Saturday morning. Gun is my best friend and I trust him with my life. For the most part he gives shit advice, but underneath it all, he’s really smart and he loves me.
In the early evening hours Trig comes home with some random guy and a sweet, surprisingly shy girl with a pixie haircut featuring pink and blue in her blonde hair. Gunner and Trig live together while both Bull and I chose to live solo. Don’t get me wrong, I love these guys, but when you live in a small bus together, touring for six straight weeks, you want space. I know more about these three guys than I should. Hacker or not, some shit is just foul. Oh to be naïve, again.
The random is geeking out about how our music has changed his life. He even has our emblem tatted on his arm. Crazy. But the good kind. Not the Non-Boob Betty kind. He and shy girl eventually go back to Trig’s room. I guess it’s playtime.
For me, this is the norm. Actually, it’s better than the norm. Sometimes, they just whip pieces of themselves out and get to it, not caring if I or anyone else is in the room has
to witness such human sexual constructs. Some things your eyes can’t un-see, especially for someone with my memory.
Just as I hear the moaning building, Bullet comes waltzing through the living room and takes the spot next to me on the couch.
“Are you on babysitter duty?” I ask pouting. Does Gunner think he can pull a fast one on me?
Bull laughs. “I’m your entertainment, baby girl.”
Gunner chuckles while standing, and rubs his now beer bloated gut. “I gotta date. Gotta head out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone home.”
“No fucking way. You’re always priority!” To prove his point, he leans down and smooches me flat on the lips. “Love you little pistol.”
And he’s off.
Bull pulls me practically on top of him, grabs the remote, and starts flipping through channels. “I got you, baby girl. Go to sleep. I’ll beat the shit out of any bad dreams that come your way.”
He rubs the spot where the stitches were removed then leans down and kisses it. “Love you, baby. Now sleep before I spank that sweet fucking ass of yours.”
“You didn’t have a date tonight?”
“Hell nah. I got my baby girl!” He scratches his nose. He’s lying. He cancelled. “I love you, Bully.”
He looks at me, softly caressing me with his soulful eyes while he leans down again and kisses me harder, square on the lips. And again, lightly.
I lay my head across his lap and drift off as his fingers brush through my hair. All wrapped up in a soft fleece blanket and in Bullet’s arms.
Who needs Cocky, when I’ve got Bad Ass?
Chapter Eight
Friday mornings at the office are mayhem. Of course, my day began that way. Sadly for me, chaos attracts like chaos.
I woke up on top of Bullet. Not that I’m complaining as the man is gorgeous. But it’s the way I awoke. I’m quite sure I was in the deep depths of sleep fully ensconced in his warmth, when that foreboding feeling of being watched woke me. Not the gentle wakening when each of your senses slowly connect with the world around you, and your brain finally catches up. Nope. This was a fuck I’m up type of wakening. One second dreams of color and light, and the next, eyes wide open, trained on the strange little creature staring at me. It was the shy chick from last night, Trigger’s ummm… friend? She’s only about ten inches from my face…too close for comfort.
“You awake?” she asks. I notice her makeup is smudged under her eyes and her cheeks are more hollowed than I noticed last night. She’s also wearing only a bra and thong.
“Yeah, I believe you took care of that for me. What time is it?”
“Sixish, I think? Are you Shooter?”
“Sometimes,” I reply, honestly. I can feel that Bullet has woken up. His hands that were placed around my back move up and down. But he appears to be staying out of whatever this little chit chat is about.
“Do you like girls?”
“Ummmm, I guess.” Most of my friends are male. I find women to be catty and mostly untrustworthy. But I do have few female acquaintances.
She brushes some purple hair back, seemingly nervous.
“Do you like to date girls?” Oh, now I get it.
She reaches over and sweeps some hair off my face then touches my brows with her frail fingers. Not sure what to do, I shift lightly on Bullet. I’m not a huge fan of being touched, especially by strangers. She stands, unclips her bra, and lets it drop to the floor. Little boobs with pointy pink tips are staring at me.
“You’re so pretty…we could…”
“I’m not really into all of that,” I interrupt with seriousness filling in my tone. I’m more uncomfortable than frustrated and I want her to go back to wherever her clothes are.
“I could help. I, I mean, have you ever tried? I’d be willing to help, I mean, offer myself for whatever you need.” Where’s Trigger? Why doesn’t she go back to him?
I feel Bullet underneath me freeze and then something else hardens wakening up and joining our conversation. Hello there, little Bullet. It’s not really little. I mean, I don’t have loads to compare it to, but it looks to be a good size, but with all of the metal in his piercings there, it’s difficult to tell. He has a Jacob’s ladder. I think there are at least four bars going through his…shaft climbing all the way up or down. But I’m usually too distracted to count.
His voice is raspy and even deeper filtered with morning sleep. “Yeah, Shooter. Maybe you should consider her offer. I could even supervise. Make sure she does the job properly.”
She smiles, her straight perfect teeth on display. I’ll admit that she’s attractive. A little too thin, seriously, go get a Big Mac, but pretty nonetheless. Still.
I shake my head no.
“Please,” she whispers, almost looking on the verge of tears. “I came here with Trigger and James so I could meet you. I’m your biggest fan! You have no idea how your music changed me. What you guys are all about just speaks to me…” She wipes under her eyes. “I’ve had the biggest crush on you for like ever.” That’s weird since the band has only been around for a few years.
“If maybe we could...ummm, I’d do anything. Anything. We could be friends if you want. I could get you coffee…or um, I could massage your feet? I could…I could…”
This desperation needs to end and my real day needs to kick start into gear.
“Thank you, I appreciate the offer and your love of our music. What’s your name?” This tends to calm the usual over enthusiastic fan. They know I’m paying attention and that I’m interested, when in reality, I just want this torture to end.
“Peyton. My name’s Peyton. If you want some breakfast, maybe I could make something for you?”
I appeased her with allowing her to feed me while Bullet looked too pleased with himself, probably hoping something will eventually go down and he’ll have a front row seat.
A cereal-filled belly later, I ran home to dress for work, and a chilly feeling came over me. Though nothing looked to be missing, it felt as if someone had been there. Inside of my home. The air seemed off, I can’t explain it. But I knew it. Always trusting my instincts, I began circling the condo looking for a clue. Picking through my memory, it appeared nothing had been touched. But that nagging feeling was there…
Changing quickly, I made it back to the office with only minutes to spare before the morning meeting commenced and I had to give an update on the Collins Corp negotiations.
A few hours later and I am chained to my desk, figuratively, of course, in the midst of a brief I am working on for the Boys and Girls Club case when I get an unwelcomed interruption.
“Charlie, there’s someone here to see you,” Olivia says pushing the cracked door further open.
“I’ll greet him. Where is he?” I assume it’s a male, because nine times out of ten, my visitors are.
“He’s at the front desk. He’s quite attractive, too.” She winks at me.
“You should ask him out then.” I stick my tongue out at her. She’s always trying to set me up thinking I need a good guy in my life. Little does she know it’s not the good ones I like. As she’s one of the few people I like in our office, I take her verbal extortion.
Across the entry way I spot said undesirable.
“Davis, how can I help you?” I don’t want him coming back to my office. Whatever he is about to say or do, is no doubt a directive from Cocky. And I want no part of that man.
“Ms. Paz, may I have a moment of your time?”
“No.”
He’s carrying what appears to be several white boxes stacked together with a long string wrapping them. It looks like food, maybe from a bakery? I take a deeper breath letting my sense of smell take the lead, and yes, it is food.
Holding it out as if the boxes were cumbersome, he gives me a pointed look and walks back to my office, as though he’s been there twenty thousand times already. Dick.
He places the boxes on my office table and sits in the chair facing it.
I remain motionless standing in the door frame, hands crossed, and wait him out. Sometimes, silence says so much more than words ever could. After several minutes of neither of us budging, he finally engages.
Turning in his chair to face me, he sighs. “Ms. Paz, would you be so kind?” He points to the chair.
“No,” I repeat. It feels as though I’ve used this word a lot today. I hope there’s no limitations on daily usage allotments. I’d be doomed, the day not nearly half over.
He begrudgingly stands and walks towards me, stopping as his toes nearly connect with mine. He’s too close.
“Ms. Paz?” He’s trying to intimidate me. Does he really think he’s the scariest thing I’ve ever dealt with? I eat men like him for breakfast with syrup and powdered sugar when I’m feeling saucy. He lives in his rules. I can see it. He is a trained Marine and most likely so institutionalized that he probably couldn’t deviate from an order even if it killed him.
Although I like rules and guidelines and razor edged boxes, we aren’t nearly cut from the same cloth. I make my own box, sharpening the corners and pushing the lines back, stretching and shaping to my will. It looks as though Davis’ box was handed to him. I think it’s cardboard.
“Mr. Collins has some gifts for you,” he says arching one brow.
“Please thank Greyson for me.” Strike one.
“It was Coen who sent the gifts.”
“Then I recant my thanks.” Booyah, strike two.
Oh, he is getting frustrated I can see the buildup brewing.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Fielding.”
So, I may have checked up on him. I may have, accidentally, dug into his military training and background to find out what I was dealing with. I may know more about this jarhead than Coen.
And, I may really like that.
It would appear that he doesn’t.
Strike three.
I move from the door and motion with my head that he should get the hell out. I’ve said and done my limit with this man. He represents ugly to me. Cocky ugly.
