Patchwhore

by Kim Jones

  I know I’m being petty. So we shared an intimate moment. It’s not like there’s anything to be ashamed of. Sure, I never thought I’d see him again … sober. But he’s here. This is my job. And when I’m not in a bathroom, against a wall with a man’s face buried in my vagina, I’m a professional.

  Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath and force my feet to walk to his table. While he keeps his face buried in the menu, I take the time to appreciate his good looks with a clear head. His light brown hair. Square jaw with a few days of scruff. Them Val Kilmer lips. Shocking blue eyes framed in dark lashes. Muscular, cut arms that are well defined even beneath his long-sleeved thermal. When he notices me, he smiles. My knees go a little weak. He’s beautiful…

  “Carmen? Right?” I just stare at him—my thoughts going stupid. He remembered my name. Or maybe he read my name badge. How could he forget me? The bastard…

  “If you weren’t breathing so hard, I’d think you didn’t like me.” His words make me aware of the scowl on my face and my labored breaths.

  I shut my mouth and straighten, forcing myself to breathe through my nose. “What can I get you to drink?” I ask, trying to ignore the deep tone of his voice that makes me ache. I wonder what it would sound like if he told me to take my panties off… My cheeks flush at my thoughts.

  “Sweet tea.” I can hear the laughter in his voice as I turn on my heel—keeping my head down until I disappear from sight.

  “Oh, he is too fine,” Jeannie says. Thankfully, she’s too busy looking at him to notice my shaky hands as I fix his tea.

  “He’s okay.” I feign nonchalance.

  “Yeah. That’s why he’s got you so overheated. Your skin is the color of my hair.” My eyes flit to her fiery red hair. I blush darker.

  “I’m just hot,” I blurt before realizing I’d given her even more ammunition to tease me.

  “I bet you are.” She dips her head to my ear and slaps my backside hard. “Go get em’, tiger.”

  I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.

  I say the mantra over and over in my head as I make my way back to his table. I manage to set his tea down without spilling it everywhere, and regretfully, give him an expectant look. He’s smiling up at me. I’m melting.

  “Ready to order?”

  “You on the menu?” Classic…

  “Do you want something to eat or not?” Thankfully, he has the grace not to comment on my poor choice of words. But his smile turns wicked and his eyes darken. My stomach flips. He knows I’m remembering that night. Just like I know he’s thinking of it too.

  “Steak and eggs. Medium rare on the steak. Over medium on the eggs. Raisin toast. No butter.”

  “Watching your figure?” I quip, temporarily forgetting the awkwardness.

  His eyes roam my body. He’s seen me on a good day—up close and personal. But even covered in sticky syrup and bacon grease, he looks at me like I’m sexy. And it makes me feel sexy.

  “You have a good figure. What’s your secret?”

  I drag my mind back to the present, and answer his question as evasively as possible. “Ramen noodles and the occasional waffle with burnt edges.” My truth has him pulling his eyes back to mine—that sexy half smile still in place.

  “A girl like you deserves better than a ten cent pack of noodles and a free waffle.” The intensity in his voice is surprising. It’s as if he actually believes I do deserve more. And he’s pissed I don’t have it.

  “You don’t even know me,” I mutter, scribbling his order.

  “I know enough.” My tongue slides over my lips. Like his did … on my other lips. “Head outta the gutter, gorgeous.” Jerking my head up, I meet his cocky smile.

  “Your order will be up soon. Let me know if I can get you anything.” I don’t notice his reaction to my generic line. I just walk away embarrassed and kicking myself for allowing him to tease me. Once again, I take my anger out on the dishwasher—stacking cups and slamming the door with a little more force than necessary.

  If I’m being completely honest with myself, the cause of my frustration stems from my sexual need. Just the memory of what we’d done stirs the embers of desire inside me until it becomes a blazing inferno. I’ve masturbated more in the past three weeks than I have in my entire life. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t reach that level of oblivion I experienced with him. It’s infuriating. And I’m sure seeing him again will only add to the fantasies I have when I’m in bed. Or in the shower. At work. Everywhere.

  Jeannie’s laughter breaks through my thoughts and has me craning my neck to find her flirting with Mr. Delicious. He’s standing at the register—his food now boxed up next to the grill.

  “Carmen! I need a ticket for table six!” He’s leaving? Why? Better yet, why do I care?

  Jeannie is called away to another table while I make my way over, leaving me alone with the star of my fantasies. I can feel his eyes on me as I ring up the order. He’s on the phone, telling whoever is on the other end, “I’m on my way.”

  I show him the total on the ticket, and my hand trembles when his cool fingers brush mine as he hands me a hundred-dollar bill and a slip of paper. As if the friction causes some sort of magnetic pull, I lift my gaze to meet his piercing, blue eyes.

  They’re touching me.

  Caressing me.

  Making love to me. Right here. In Waffle House.

  Chill, Carmen…

  “I thought we were gonna be seeing a lot more of you at the bar.” He grins, crossing his arms and bringing my attention to the cords of muscle there.

  “Things didn’t go as planned.”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “I thought it would really bother him.” Could I sound any more pathetic?

  “Oh, it bothered him. Still does.” He seems to be fighting a laugh, and I have a feeling he knows something he’s not telling me.

  “Well, he never called or texted.”

  “That’s because he wants you to think he doesn’t give shit. Trust me, babe. He gives a shit.” Stepping forward, he drops his head. He’s so close, I can feel the heat of his mouth on my face. “A girl like you walks in a bar. The piece of shit who cheated on her is there. He watches as she sways those sexy fuckin’ hips right around another man’s waist. Then she’s screaming…” His voice becomes a whisper. “While a man tongue fucks her pussy.”

  I squeeze my thighs together. I’m silently begging him to ask for a repeat of that night. We don’t have to go to the bar. He can do what he said right here. On top of the counter—I don’t care.

  When he pulls back, his eyes are stormy. “Sounds like something that would bother me. Just sayin’.”

  “Sounds like a Lori Morgan song to me.” I cut my eyes to Jeannie who’s been eavesdropping on our conversation. Unashamed, she offers a shrug. “Just sayin’.”

  I look back to Mr. Delicious who winks. The gesture erases the anger from his face. “Dinner’s on me, gorgeous.”

  I watch as he strolls out. The loose fitting, faded jeans he wears have to be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen on a man. Well, second to that PROSPECT patch that looks a little more worn today than it did three weeks ago. I make a mental note to Google what it means.

  I’m still holding the hundred-dollar bill, eighteen-dollar ticket and slip of paper in my hand. I ring up the order, pay for the food, then tuck the large tip in my apron. While Jeannie busies herself with her customers, I quickly disappear into the bathroom—making myself wait until I’m behind the locked stall before I open the paper and read the note.

  A phone number.

  A name.

  Cook.

  A couple hours later, I’m pacing the small hall leading to the bathrooms—phone in one hand, Cook’s number in the other. I do a mental countdown about a hundred times before finally punching in his number and hitting send. I squeeze my eyes shut, silently praying he won’t pick up.

  “Yeah?” Shit. He picked up. And he sounds delicious. Delicious? I�
�ve got to find another word.

  “Um, hi. Cook?”

  “Who is this.” He doesn’t ask. He demands.

  “Yeah, hey. So. Um, this is—” the swinging door to the lobby opens, and without thinking, I end the call. I greet the customer with a nervous laugh while holding open the door to the women’s room.

  Noise from the dining area draws my attention as a huge crowd piles in. Slipping my phone in my back pocket, I walk out with a smile—thankful for the distraction. But while I busy myself with drink and food orders, high chairs, extra napkins and ketchup, I can feel my ass vibrating from the constant ringing in my pants. When I get a second to check it, I have three missed calls. From him.

  “Miss, I need some more water.”

  “Young lady, reckon you can get us some jelly?”

  “If my food isn’t out in five minutes, I’m leaving.”

  “My eggs are cold.”

  With so much to keep my attention, I still can’t seem to focus on anything but Cook. The missed calls. His voice. Hands. Mouth. Lips. Eyes. That tongue… It’s official. I’m addicted. The orgasm he gave me is like a drug. If I don’t get another hit, I may die. I’m too young to die. So for the sake of my health, I have to see him tonight.

  The anticipation has me so worked up, I can’t do anything right. After the rush dies down and the restaurant is empty, I have less than twenty bucks to show for it. And a gallon of spilled maple syrup.

  I fall to my knees and start the grueling process of cleaning up the sticky remnants. It seems to be everywhere. The more I clean, the more it multiplies. By the time I’m finished, I’m exhausted. And the promise of an orgasm isn’t nearly as enticing as my bed that waits for me.

  My mind made up, I clock out and leave—driving in the direction of my apartment. Sitting at the light, I hear my phone chime with a notification and dig it from pocket. There’s a total of four missed calls, all from Cook. And one message from Emily.

  I hate him

  Hovering my finger over the attachment, I contemplate opening it. I know I’ll regret it if I look, but curiosity gets the better of me and I press the screen.

  My mind spins when I see a picture of Jud and Clarissa smiling at the camera. The caption reads, “One day, I’m gonna marry this girl.” And to make it even more sickening, Emily has been kind enough to make a collage which includes a picture from three years ago of me and Jud in the exact same pose as him and Clarissa—the caption the same damn thing too.

  If Emily’s intention was to piss me off, it worked. I’m livid. More at myself than him. Because my anger proves that I’m not completely over him. If I was, then things like this shouldn’t bother me. But it’s obvious that this is some kind of game to him—who can be the bigger jerk. He thinks I screwed one of his club brothers, so he posts a picture with one of my ex-sisters.

  He knew it’d hurt me and it probably will. But right now, pain is the last thing I feel. Because in this moment...

  I’m mad as hell.

  Tequila With Bikers

  This time when I pull up in front of Pop’s bar, I’m not nervous. I waltz through the door and into the crowded building with confidence. Finding an empty stool between two men, I climb up and take a seat—searching the women behind the bar for the waitress with the great advice.

  I hear her before I see her. Loud, smacking gum sounds in my ear and I turn to find her standing right beside me. “I knew you’d be back,” she says with a wink. Giving me a onceover, she lets out a low whistle. “Only you can wear something like that and look good doing it.”

  Frowning, I look down at the cheap, black polo, black jeans and hideous nonslip shoes. I hadn’t even taken my name badge off. I quickly unclip it from my shirt and shove it in my back pocket.

  “I’m Kat. Short for … pussycat.” At the mention of “pussy,” the man next to her turns on his stool—his eyes dropping to her short skirt. “Ronnie, quit looking at my ass,” she says without turning. “This here’s Carmen. She wants a margarita.”

  Ronnie looks over at me. He’s an older man with faded tattoos, glasses and a jean vest covered in worn patches. He shoots me an appreciative smile and nods. “Nice to meet you, Carmen. First drink’s on me. The next one will cost ya.”

  I’m not sure what it’ll cost me, but I don’t think he’s talking about money. I swallow nervously. Kat smirks at my reaction. “He’s harmless. And he’s loaded.”

  She moves behind the bar, and I watch in amazement as she interacts with all the customers as she makes my drink. She teases some, chastises others. Curses loudly and even threatens a man who reaches across the bar to playfully smack her—promising to cut off his “pecker” if he tries it again.

  I envy her. I’d never have the nerve to speak so open and freely to a group of such harsh looking men. Sure, I approached Cook—and let him eat me in the bathroom—but he’s a lot different than these guys. These men are rowdy and loud. Probably violent and mean. Likely on parole.

  I should’ve went home. Got back at Jud by posting naked pictures of myself on social media. I just don’t fit in here. I’m way out of my element. Too timid and reserved to act like I belong. And the one person I came to see isn’t here anyway. I’ll finish this drink so I don’t appear rude, but then I’m out. Because all the tequila in Lake Charles couldn’t loosen me up around this crowd.

  “One, two … three!”

  Lick.

  Shoot.

  Suck.

  Hit the trash can target three feet away with the lime wedge.

  It’s the stupidest, most amazingly fun game I’ve ever played. And if it was an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist.

  “I win!” I announce, fisting my hands in the air as I sit cross-legged on the bar. The place is packed, and I’d given up my seat to Ronnie’s buddy, Marshal, over an hour ago.

  “I think you’re cheatin’,” Ronnie laughs. “How are you not shit-faced?” I stack my empty shot glass on the tower we’ve been building. I’d count them, but unbeknownst to him, I am pretty shit-faced.

  “It’s all about staying hydrated.” To emphasize, I take a pull from my bottle of water. “More water. More liquor. More fun.”

  “More money,” Kat says, holding her hand out. Ronnie peels off a bill from his money clip. “At this rate, I’ll be able to buy new shoes after she pukes on these later.” She juts her finger at me.

  “I’m not puking. Guarantee it.”

  Kat raises a brow at me. “Mmm-hmm. We’ll see.” She looks over my shoulder—her eyes narrowing a moment before coming back to meet mine. “How drunk are you?”

  “Shittttty…” Really shitty.

  “Good.” She walks away, not bothering to explain her question. I shrug it off--my focus on Ronnie as he signals for another round.

  “I’m beating you this time.”

  “Yeah.” I pat his cheek. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  It’s amazing how easily I opened up. Sure the tequila helped, but six months ago I never imagined I would have the audacity to walk into a place like this, much less engage with the people who hung out here. And I’d done it twice. Once nearly naked.

  But tonight, one margarita turned into two. Then Ronnie bought me a shot. Which led to another. And then a silly game. Next thing I knew; we were in competition with one another. Now, I feel like this kind of place is my kind of place. Like I’m a regular.

  Lick.

  Shoot.

  Suck.

  Score!

  “Winner-winner, chicken-dinner, motherfucker!” Motherfucker? I’ve never said that word—out loud. But I like it. And it’s socially acceptable here.

  I wait for Ronnie to drill me. Accuse me of cheating. But his back is to me as he greets someone else. It’s something he’s done all night. It seems everyone who walks in, comes to shake his hand. He has lots of friends, obviously.

  After the first twenty or so, I stopped paying attention to them. But as I stack my shot glass, I feel eyes burning into the side of my head
. When I hear my name being spoken in that disbelieving, familiar voice, I roll my eyes.

  “Ello Jud,” I say, my voice accented. I have to blink a few times to focus my vision before I find his scowling face. “Where’s your bitch?” I make a show of looking for her. “Ain’t she like property of MVP Jud, or somethin’? You get her a collar and tag to go with that vest? I hear you can even put a chip in em’ now.”

  Ronnie shakes his head—a smile on his lips. I grin back at him. He thinks I’m funny. Jud does not think I’m funny. He’s fuming.

  “She bothering you, Ronnie?” Jud asks, his tone full of authority. I hiccup a laugh.

  “Nope. She bothering you?” There’s a hint of something in Ronnie’s voice. I may just be imagining it, but it sounds like a warning.

  “No, but she’s drunk. I’ll get her out of your hair before she does something stupid.” Jud starts around the bar, and he’s nearly to me before I’ve fully processed his words. I need to drink more water. My brain is slowing down.

  He reaches for my arm and I pull back. “Don’t touch me!” I yell, my anger surfacing.

  “Don’t embarrass me, Carmen,” he warns, glancing around nervously before leveling me with a look. I realize there are people watching us, and the noise has quieted down.

  “I’m not even with you,” I spit. “I didn’t come here with you and I’m not leaving here with you.”

  “Let her be, Jud. She’s alright.” Ronnie’s words have Jud retreating, but only after he shoots me a nasty look, which I respond to with sticking my tongue out like a five-year-old.

  Once he’s out of sight, I lean in to Ronnie. “You know … I was a good girlfriend. I loved him. A lot.” My vision blurs slightly. Damn tequila. “I’d have done anything for him. Walked through hell wearing nothing but gasoline-soaked panties for him.” He smiles at that. I wonder where in the hell the saying came from.

  “I believe you, sugar. I really do.” He hands me a napkin, and I realize I’m crying. I dab at my eyes, hoping Jud can’t see me from wherever he is. I’m handed a shot by someone, and down it without bothering with salt or lime. Then I hiccup, wipe another fresh flow of tears and laugh.