She examines me for a moment, before she laughs. It’s a slutty laugh. A fake one. I almost shudder, but don’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is an easy woman who is mine for the taking. If I wanted to take her, that is, but I find that I really don’t. And I think I do know what’s wrong with me.
Mila Hill is in my head, wholesome and sweet. But I’ll be fucking damned if I let her invade my life when she doesn’t even want me in the first place.
I knock back my glass of Jack and signal for one more. I knock that one back too.
A comforting sense of calm descends upon me, the familiar numbness that I love so much. When all else fails, the obscurity prevails. I almost laugh at my deep thinking, but instead, I reach over and grasp Amber’s thick thigh, enjoying the fleshy feel of her leg in my fingers. If this chick wants me, she can have me.
And then I do what I always do. I block out logical thought with drugs or women. In this case, a bar slut and Jack Daniels.
“Come with me,” I whisper into her ear. Amber smiles knowingly and nods. She clings to my hand as we pick our way through the dirty bar, down the dingy back hall and into the women’s bathroom.
The bathroom is exactly how I figured it would be—disgusting. A single light bulb hangs from the yellowed ceiling, casting a dubious light around the small room. There is evidence of puke on the sides of the toilet, the tiles are grimy and the walls look as though they haven’t been washed since 1969. But it doesn’t matter. I lock the door behind us and turn to Amber.
She reaches for me and I let her, sliding my hand up her thigh and under her tight shirt, gripping her fat tit. I squeeze it hard and she moans.
I squeeze it harder and she moans again.
I want to roll my eyes at this stupid game. I know what’s going to happen because I’ve played it a thousand times before. She’s going to pretend to enjoy anything that I do, and I’ll pretend not to know it’s fake.
But who gives a fuck? Pussy is pussy.
I pull a condom from my wallet and rip it open with my teeth, but discover a problem. I’m not hard.
“Suck me,” I tell Amber. And then I smile charmingly.
She smiles back and immediately drops to her knees on the dirty floor, her head bobbing. It’s not long before I’m hard enough for the condom, in spite of myself. I slide it on, help Amber to her feet and turn her away from me. And then I enter her from behind, with no preamble, no foreplay.
She doesn’t seem to mind.
She moans as if my dick is the best she’s ever had. I close my eyes and picture all of the porn scenes I’ve ever watched, all of the tits and ass and masturbation and shower scenes. But something is off. The smell in here is putrid, I’m tired, I’m pissed. Things aren’t coming easily tonight and I know that having an orgasm isn’t going to be easy, particularly with whiskey-dick.
So I picture Mila.
And immediately, I feel a gush of warmth. I picture her small waist, her lush hips. Her full lips. Her soft tits. Her feminine smell, clean and floral. It immediately floods life into my dick and I’m back in the game.
As I envision Mila, I bang Amber hard and I hear her forehead thumping against the dirty tiled walls. She allows it because, like me, she doesn’t feel like she deserves anything more than this… this dirty fuck in a dirty bar bathroom.
It’s pathetic on both our parts.
I picture Mila again, and then for some reason, it stops working. It’s doesn’t feel right. Amber isn’t Mila. And even thinking of Mila while I’m in this pathetic place with this pathetic chick feels wrong on a hundred different levels.
I pull out abruptly and Amber turns to look at me in confusion. Her eye makeup is smeared from sweat. In fact, I can smell the sweat from here and I fight the urge to shudder.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” I tell her. “Whiskey dick.”
It’s a lie, but it doesn’t matter. She nods knowingly, as if she encounters this problem all of the time. She pats my shoulder sympathetically, as if I give a flying fuck what she thinks about me.
But I smile as if I’m grateful for her understanding.
I toss the condom into the trash and walk out.
As I do, I hand Dan the bartender a twenty.
“To cover her drinks the rest of the night,” I tell him.
Dan smiles. “Sure thing. See you next time!”
I nod and make my way into the parking lot, collapsing into Danger. My car is familiar and comfortable and I feel calmer now that I’m in it. I rest my head against the seat and inhale the leather smell and the fresh air. It’s so much better than the stale, smoky air in the bar. And then I drive home with the windows open and my music blaring.
The road is black and long as it flies beneath my car, but I am home before I know it. Before I am even ready, actually. I stand in my driveway and face the dark house, and for the first time, I have the feeling that I don’t want to go in, simply because it is so empty.
Living alone is great, but sometimes it is just so fucking lonely.
I stand still for a moment, my hands dangling at my sides, before I head back to my car. I’ve still got agitation to burn, I guess.
I don’t know why I head to the Bear’s Den, the little bar in town. I know that Jill is probably there or her other bar whore friends, and if I want to spend time with them, I’ll call them. I don’t want them hanging on me when I’m not in the mood.
And I’m definitely not in the mood for that tonight. I just want to walk in, draw up a seat at the bar and be around people, without actually having to interact with them. Is that so much to ask? I’m not in the mood for bar whores.
I nose my car into a parking slot and slam the door, taking a deep breath of the night air as I walk inside. It’s the last clean breath I’ll get once I cross the smoky threshold of the bar.
I walk in and glance through the smoky haze that floats through the dim room. Locals sit and chat, while others play pool or darts in the back. I know their faces, but not their names. I’m not much of a socializer.
True to form, Jill is here. I see her situated in the back, perched on the edge of a table, her half-naked ass shoved into some poor sap’s face. So much for her promise to get help. Quite honestly, now that I know she has kids at home, all I feel is disgust for her. What a waste of oxygen.
She notices me looking at her and her heavily made-up face lights up and she practically leaps from her table to come to me.
But I shake my head, mouthing the word No.
She looks startled, then hurt, as she stops in her tracks. I turn my back and head for the bar. As I sit down on a stool, I can see from my periphery that she sat back down at her table. I can feel her wounded gaze, but I don’t look at her. I think my time with her is over. Someone else can be her supplier and contribute toward her wasted life.
I know the bartender’s name here, because he wears it on his nametag. I guess that makes it easier for the drunks to remember. Or people who don’t really give a shit. Like me.
“Hey, Mickey,” I greet him. “I’ll have a Jack. Double, neat.”
Mickey nods, a wiry guy who looks like he’s seen better days and more than his share of bar fights. He’s got a scar running from his ear to his chin. I’ve never asked him how he got it, and he’s never offered to say.
“How you doin’, Tate?” he asks as he sets the whiskey in front of me. I pick up the glass, drain it in one gulp and thump it back down.
“Better now,” I tell him. “I’ll take another. In fact, just keep ‘em coming tonight.”
He nods, pouring one and then heads down to help someone else. I take a small gulp from my glass and set it down, closing my eyes. It feels good to be surrounded by people, but still lost in them. No one will approach me other than Jill and I shut her down already. I’m alone here, but it’s less lonely than it is at home.
Feminine giggling invades my hearing and my eyes pop open.
Because I know that laugh.
I turn in my seat to find M
ila and her sister stumbling from the hallway leading to the bathroom. It looks like they are holding each other up and I roll my eyes. You’ve got to be kidding me. I run into her even here? This was the last place I would have expected to find her. She and her sister both look as out of place in this little hole as they can possibly get.
Mila glances up and stops, her giggle dying on her lips as she recognizes me. Her eyes widen and she looks like she wants to come over to me, to possibly say something. But her sister is pulling on her arm, and even though Mila looks over her shoulder at me, she allows Madison to steer her away. I’m pretty sure Madison is moving her away from me on purpose and I clench my jaw. Mila’s an adult. She can make her own decisions.
Not that her decisions are always wise.
I come to this realization very quickly as she and Madison rejoin a couple of local guys who are playing darts.
The darts aren’t the problem, the guys are.
I roll my eyes again. What the hell does Mila think she’s doing? Either one of those guys would eat her for breakfast. She probably thinks she’s safe because she’s most likely known them her whole life. But they are both snakes. I’ve seen them with a million women in this very bar, none of them twice.
I sigh and drain my glass, signaling for another. It’s not my problem. She made that clear when she said I wasn’t a good idea.
So fuck her.
I turn away as I watch one of them wrap his meaty paw around her slender waist and pull her close, supposedly showing her how to properly throw the dart. It makes me want to hurl so I turn my back to them.
I do everything I can to ignore them. I make small-talk with Mickey. I watch ESPN on the overhead TV. I close my eyes and listen to the conversation around me. And even though I know that it would be much easier to just get up and leave, something in me wants to stay. Something in me thinks I need to stay.
I can’t explain it.
And then I realize the reason in a sudden rush of clarity. I’m staying because I think she’ll need me.
Holy shit, what kind of idiot am I? I slam my glass down on the table and toss some bills on the bar. I head to the bathroom to take a leak before I go, but then I’m out of here. She’s made it clear what she wants. And it isn’t me.
When I come back out, Madison is already at the door of the bar with one of the guys. She’s leaning into him, laughing into his ear. She’s clearly very drunk. I shake my head and fight the urge to say something.
It’s one thing when a bar whore goes home with random men. Bar whores know exactly what they’re doing. They’re giving something for getting something, be it drugs or drinks or even just attention. It’s a conscious decision. But Madison isn’t a bar whore and that jackass is taking advantage of her. But it’s not my place to interfere.
Until I see Mila grab her purse and stumble toward the door. The guy she’s with tags along at her heels and she turns to grab onto him, unsteady on her feet. He laughs, his hand brushing her perfect ass as he steadies her.
My blood boils. And since I’m already on my way out the door, I can’t do anything other than trail behind them, something that causes my blood to burn even hotter. Fuck this.
They stumble out and I even hold the door open as Mila’s jacket gets caught on the handle. Her eyes meet mine, and hers are blurry and unfocused. She’s in no condition to be choosing a bedmate. My gut clenches, but I keep my mouth shut.
She made her choice.
She made her choice.
She made her choice.
I repeat it in my head, as if it will make it an easier pill to swallow. It doesn’t. It still pisses me off. I step outside and turn to walk to my car.
I hear their voices behind me, fading into the distance. Mila is laughing, the guy is talking to her, low and deep. As I turn to open my car door, I glance in their direction. They are standing next to what must be the guy’s car because he’s opened the passenger side door, but Mila is trying to shake his hand instead.
What the hell?
I pause and watch. Mila is slurring her words by now, but she is definitely trying to shake this guy’s hand. And say goodnight.
A feeling of satisfaction wells up in me before I can stop it.
Until the guy smiles like a piranha and pushes Mila against the car, where he shoves against her and sticks his tongue down her throat. His hands are all over and she is pushing at him, struggling.
“No,” she cries out.
I see an explosion of red and I close the gap between us in three strides.
I yank the guy off of her and slam him onto the ground. Before I can think or breathe, I stomp on his hand as he grasps for my leg. His bones crunch and he howls in pain, clutching his broken hand to his chest.
Mila gasps, her eyes wide, as she huddles against the car. As my attention is on her, the guy kicks at my leg, connecting with my knee.
Fuck. But I don’t feel it with all the adrenaline pumping through me.
He kicks again, but this time, I see it coming and move. He only connects with air.
“Fuck you, man,” he slurs. “Fucking prick. This isn’t your business. You broke my fucking hand, man.”
He is scrambling to get up now and I put my boot on his chest.
“Don’t,” I tell him, as he tries to grab at me. “You’re lucky that’s all I broke. The next time a woman tells you no, stop whatever the fuck it is that you’re doing. Now go home and sleep it off. And don’t come near Mila again. If you do, I will break your dick off and feed it to you.”
The drunk guy glares up at me. “What the fuck is your problem? You don’t know what she wants.”
I turn to Mila, my foot still firmly planted in the guy’s chest.
“Mila, do you want to see this guy again?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“There you have it,” I tell him calmly, removing my foot. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“Fuck you, man,” he mutters as he struggles to his feet. “I don’t need this. Fuck that slut, too.”
That’s when I punch him.
Hard. In the side of head. He goes down like a bag of rocks. Mila gasps and I shake my head, bending to make sure he’s still breathing.
He is, so I turn to Mila.
“Come on. Let’s get you home.”
“Why did you do that?” she whispers, her eyes frozen on the unconscious asshole on the pavement. “Jared didn’t mean to hurt me. He was just drunk. I’ve known him for a long time.”
I stare at her as I walk to her side.
“You have no idea what he meant to do. Trust me. It wasn’t good.”
I take her arm and lead her to my car, opening the door and tucking her into the passenger seat before I strap her in.
As I’m getting into the driver’s seat, Mila is rummaging through her purse. She looks up at me.
“Uh-oh,” she says quietly. “I can’t find my keys. My apartment is locked. Can you take me to Maddy’s?”
Her words are seriously slurred by this point. It sounded more like she said I cent fine my keel. Miz part is lock. Cent you take me to Man’s? I shake my head.
“You’re seriously fucked up,” I tell her. “You’re probably going to get sick soon. And I don’t think your sister is going home. I’ll take you to my house.”
Her eyes widen and she shakes her head. “Pax, no. It’s not a good idea. I don’t trust myself around you.” Her words are completely garbled of course, but I can make them out.
I startle and stare at her.
“You can’t trust yourself around me?”
She shakes her head pathetically, then leans her head on the cool window glass.
“No. I can’t let you break my heart. I don’t have much of it left.”
My gut clenches yet again, something that it seems to do a lot of when I’m around her. I ram the key in the ignition.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I won’t be breaking your heart tonight. You can sleep it off in my bed. I’ll take the couch.�
�
She nods, her face planted firmly against the window and I know that she’s not long for the conscious world. And I’m right. By the time we reach my house a scant five minutes later, she has passed out in the seat.
I stare at her for a minute, at her shiny dark hair, her tight jeans, her full breasts, which I can just barely see through the opening of her jacket. Her lips puff out with each little breath that she exhales in her passed out state. She’s going to feel this tomorrow. If she hadn’t been so stupid, I’d feel sorry for her.
I scoop her out of the car and carry her to the house, trying to ignore the soft way she melts into my body, and the way her head leans against my shoulder. She can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.
I set her on my bed, pull off her boots and cover her up. I drag my bathroom trashcan next to her, just in case, and then sit in a chair and watch her for a bit. I have no idea if she’s going to wake up and be sick or if she’s definitely passed out for the night.
She remains still and quiet, with a little snore erupting from her every once in a while. I can’t help but smile just a bit over that. I’m guessing she would be embarrassed to know that she’s snoring, even though it’s actually cute as hell.
I sigh.
I’m fucking tired and I could easily sleep right here in this chair, but I know that if she wakes up and finds me here, it might be startling, particularly in the dark. So I head downstairs and find that once again, I’m just not ready to sleep. I’m worked up now, from all of the shit at the bar and by the fact that Mila is in my bed at this very moment. Alone.
And I’m downstairs. Alone.
And my hand hurts.
Fucking A.
I grab a baggie of ice for my hand and a bottle of whiskey from my garage and make my way out to the beach behind my house. I drop onto a chair and stare up at the stars as I listen to the rhythmic crash of the waves. I take a gulp of the liquid fire. I feel the warmth all the way into my belly and I take another swig.
I fall asleep humming a song that I don’t know the words to or even where it came from. The last conscious thought I have is that the night is so very, very black.
Minutes, or days, or years pass before something wakes me. Time has run together.
If You Stay (Beautifully Broken) Page 7
