Patchwhore

by Kim Jones

  I wish I had ice cream. I wish I had cable. I wish this was a romance novel. I wish my Prince Charming would show up and save his damsel-in-distress. And because I’m a pathetic, attention-starved, dramatic, hopeless romantic, I get up and unlock the door so he doesn’t have to break in.

  The Proposal

  He didn’t show.

  I fell asleep. With my door unlocked. Granting access for any serial murderer or rapist to come in and do their worst. The risk was for nothing. Filled with disappointment, my day started shitty. And by noon, it got even shittier.

  We ran out of waffle batter. At Waffle House. People were pissed. And because Waffle House has such a strict health code, we couldn’t even go to the store and purchase more. It was a disaster, to say the least.

  My shift ended at ten that night—sixteen straight hours of hell. Apparently Waffle House isn’t as strict about their labor policy as they are about their health code. I wasn’t even offered a lunch break.

  Tired, hungry, overworked and underpaid, I head home. Halfway there, I receive a text from Kat—tempting me with something I cannot refuse.

  We cooked steaks tonight at the bar. Come by when you get off!

  Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling open the door at Pop’s. My mouth waters and my stomach lets out a low growl the moment the scent of grilled meat hits me. The place is just as packed now as it is on Thursday. It’s a little surprising considering it’s after eleven on a Monday night. Then I notice a banner that reads, “Congratulations Eagles Brett!” And standing next to that banner is Cook. Just … being.

  He’d unintentionally hurt my feelings last night. Unknowingly, he’d left me prey to every evil vulture on the streets—all because I’d left my door unlocked for him. This morning, I’d decided I was going to hate him for the rest of my life. But as the deliciously stimulating, smug bastard watches me with a cocky smirk, I find myself struggling with the decision to hate him.

  He’s just too handsome with his sturdy jaw and perfectly symmetrical nose. Too damn cute with his boyish grin and messy hair. Too friggin’ sexy with his bedroom eyes and muscled body. Too much of a biker-bad-boy with his cut, ripped jeans and ringed fingers. And of course, he’s coming over.

  “Hello gorgeous,” he says, taking in my Waffle House uniform. “Judging by your scowl, I’m guessing you’re mad at me.”

  “Mad? I’m not mad.” I say quickly, averting my eyes so he doesn’t see the truth there. If I admit I’m upset, it might make me look needy. Or pathetic. I’m both. But he doesn’t need to know that. “Why would I be mad?” Shrugging, I fidget with the hem of my shirt and study my feet. “I’m a little tired. Pretty hungry. But mad?” I shake my head, pressing my lips into a thin line as I raise my chin to meet his gaze. “I’m not mad.”

  “You’re not a very good liar, either.” His lips curve on one side. His arms are crossed over his chest. His stance wide. Confident. Powerful. My mind hates him. My vagina wants to grow legs again.

  “Come,” he says, grabbing my hand. My legs quiver at his one-word demand. “I’ll get you a plate.”

  Leaving me with no other option, not that I would take it if he had, I follow him to the corner of the bar that’s usually reserved for Ronnie. And even though Ronnie isn’t here, his stool, along with the four next to it, are vacant.

  “Hey doll,” Kat says, walking through the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. “Consider yourself privileged. Only a select few get to sit in that chair.”

  “Where is Ronnie?” I ask, feeling honored to be one of the “select few.” And a little guilty for not choosing one of the other four seats.

  “Outside.” She jerks her head toward the back door, her eyes narrowing slightly on me. “You look like hell.” I shoot her a look but it falters when she sets a plate holding the biggest damn ribeye I’ve ever seen, right in front of me. “I can’t pronounce it for shit, but I got you this too.” She pulls a bottle from beneath the bar. I nearly weep at the sight of it.

  “Pinot Noir,” I whisper.

  “Yeah. That shit. I tried it … ugh.” She makes a face as she pours me a generous amount.

  “You have no idea how much I needed this.” Turning up the glass, I devour nearly half of it. Kat dutifully refills it before leaving to tend to someone else. Three bites into my steak, I notice Cook has yet to take his eyes off of me. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to stare?”

  The question is simple. It doesn’t require him to tilt his head a little and study me as if there’s some underlying meaning to my words. But he does.

  “I wanted to come over last night,” he says, his voice low and deep and throaty and driving me friggin’ crazy.

  I let out a small laugh, keeping my eyes on my food. “You did, did you?”

  “But I got tied up.”

  He’s so funny. I release another breath of laughter and meet his gaze. Of course he’s amused. “That,” I say, lifting my glass to him. “I believe.”

  His stupid, stupid smile widens. “Figured you got the wrong idea. I guess I was right.”

  “Wrong idea?” I shake my head, eyes wide with innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean you thought I was fuckin’ Delilah.”

  Time for more wine.

  Thankful to Kat for leaving the bottle, I refill my glass. When I spin on my stool to face him he’s leaning against the bar—ankles crossed. Arms still crossed. Muscles flexing. Too damn close. Too damn hot. Too damn delicious.

  “Did you sleep with her?” It was meant to sound bitchy. My tone was more of a whimper.

  “No.” For the first time tonight, he’s not smiling. Grinning or smirking. He’s serious. “We have a deal. An understanding. You’re only fuckin’ me, and I only want to fuck you.”

  For a moment, I think about crying. Letting him take me in his arms. Tell me it’s okay. Rub my hair and listen to my sob story. Then take me home. Lay me down. Make love to me. Spend the night, and wake me up with breakfast in bed. I’m thinking a donut around his cock. It’d have to be a big donut…

  Instead, I shrug and refuse to acknowledge the tingling I feel in my spine at his admission. “I don’t care if you did or not.”

  “Well just so we’re clear, I didn’t. I wouldn’t.” His gaze narrows on me—burning with possession. “And I’d sure as fuck care if you gave that pussy to someone else. I’m hungry for you, Carmen. Fuckin’ starved. And when I get a taste of something I like, I don’t share it.”

  Out of all those sexy, panty-dropping words, only two registered. Hungry and starved. My belly growls loudly—roaring and grumbling and it’s so shocking, all I can do is sit here and listen. I should get a “mood killing” award. The moment is lost. Cook’s smile is back. I guess he heard it too.

  “Seems I’m not the only one who’s hungry.” His eyes drop to where my grease stained shirt covers my belly. “Eat. We’ll talk later.” Then like a shadow, he disappears into the crowd.

  I’m beginning to think this particular spot that I’m sitting in comes with an unspoken warning—stay the hell away. Because even though I’ve seen familiar faces pass by, not one person has stopped to talk to me. They simply smile and move along, allowing me to consume my meal in silence. I’ll have to remember to thank Ronnie later.

  “Hey!” someone yells. “Listen up!” I crane my neck to find the voice calling for attention. A man steps on the stage, taking the microphone offered to him by the D.J. Squinting my eyes to get a better view, I make out Lou—President of the Eagles.

  “Can you hear me in the back?” Lou asks over the mic. Several people behind me yell back a confirmation. “Got an announcement to make.”

  I watch in curiosity as Jud joins him on the stage. The sound of the back door closing pulls my attention away from the front. Ronnie walks in, pausing to speak with Kat. Cook is right behind him. I can feel his heated stare warming my body even before our eyes meet. But the moment they do, heat vanishes and an uneasy feeling engulfs me. Something is wron
g.

  Cook is emotionless. Pinning me with a grave look. Watching me. Studying me. That blank stare confirming I’m right: something is wrong. And whatever it is, is happening in this moment.

  He refuses to look away from me even as him and Ronnie close the distance. I try to hold his gaze. Stare at him until he gives me a flicker of emotion. Search his eyes for some explanation. But Jud’s voice over the microphone demands my attention.

  “I wanted to share this with all of you tonight, because you are my family.” He holds his hand out and Clarissa slips hers inside it. She looks confused as he pulls her on stage.

  A knot forms in my stomach, slowly making its way up my chest. “Clarissa,” Jud says, pausing to look deep into her eyes. That knot climbs a little higher—tightening around my heart. “I love you. More than anything.” I can’t breathe. Or maybe I can, but I’m just scared to. Too afraid of what I might say if my lungs fill with air.

  “You have my heart. My patch.” When he reaches in his pocket, my world stops spinning. He drops to a knee and my heart stills. Holding up a box, he smiles. She covers her mouth with her hand. My soul shatters. Then he says, “Now I want you to wear my ring.”

  The thunderous applause is deafening. Cat calls and whistles shriek through the room. But it sounds far away to my ears. Champagne and beer is shaken and spewed. Everyone participates in the celebration. But I’m numb to the cool liquid that soaks my clothes and hair. There’s a crowd of people around me. The horde moves slowly toward the stage. But they’re just a blur in my eyes. All I can see is them.

  Clarissa—her legs folded around Jud’s hips.

  Jud—his arms around Clarissa’s waist.

  The perfect couple.

  Too caught up in one another to care about the people around them. Their moment is intimate. Their love palpable. Connection unbreakable. Hearts beating as one. Souls merging. Bodies touching. Lost in the others’ gaze. Smiling. Crying. Eyes reiterating what they both know. What everyone in the room knows. What I know.

  They’re happy.

  Jud’s happy.

  Happier than I’ve ever seen him.

  Happier than he ever was with me.

  Into The Black

  Someone steps in front of me, blocking my view of the stage. I instantly feel protected from the crowd. Safe in his shadow. He’s more than just a man in a cut. He’s a presence. A sense of calm. A safety net. Breathing deep, I inhale the scent of his cologne and leather that powers through the heavy cigarette smoke and champagne odor. I’m searching for the calm it always brings me. Instead, I feel the burn building behind my eyes.

  He lifts my chin with his finger. Immediately I’m pulled to those crystal blues that shine with empathy and regret. “Hey gorgeous,” Cook whispers, his touch soft as he trails his thumb over my quivering lip.

  “I want to go home.” My voice is weak. Barely audible.

  His look softens even more as he nods. “Okay.”

  Tucking my hand in his, he gently pulls me through the crowd. I keep my head down. Eyes on the floor. I should hold my head high. Smile through the pain. Appear unaffected. Pretend that it doesn’t hurt. But I can’t. Not this time.

  The night is warm. Humid. The air sticky and thick. Yet I can’t shake this cold feeling. A shiver starts at my neck, runs down my spine and shoots straight to my toes. I shudder on every breath. Blood flows through my veins like cool molasses--chilling me all the way to my core.

  Cook opens the passenger door of my car and I climb in. I avoid looking at him. Not wanting to see it again—the pity. Remorse. That penetrating gaze that speaks to me when he knows words will fall on deaf ears. The one that says he’s sorry. That I’ll be okay. Time will heal. It’ll get easier.

  I thought that once. That I was healed. That it had gotten easier. I’d distracted myself. Got over him. Chose revenge over heartache. For the past couple of months, I’ve felt like I was really going to be okay. Now I'm not so sure.

  The passing cars on the interstate become a blur. Tears pour down my cheeks. Each one coming in quick succession. Every single drop shed for a different reason. Representing a different time. A memory. Our first date. Kiss. The first time he made love to me. The night he told me I was his. That there would never be another. For him, there was only me.

  A sob escapes my lips. I press my hand over my mouth to stifle it. But another starts to build. Tears begin to fall faster. I blink furiously in an attempt to clear my vision. Swipe my cheeks with the back of my hands. Fight against the unrelenting wave of sadness.

  “Just let it out, gorgeous.” Cook’s hand finds mine. It’s big and warm. Then he’s kissing my fingers. Lips soft and smooth. His voice whispering over my knuckles. “I got you. Let it go.”

  Maybe I was waiting on his permission. Trying to hold in everything because I feared he’d somehow feel responsible for me. Inclined to take care of me. But the promise and conviction in his words—I got you—has me doing as he says.

  My elbow on the door, face buried in one hand, holding Cook’s in the other, I let go. Gut wrenching sobs wrack me. Stealing my breath. Shaking my body. The car is filled with miserable cries. Whimpers of pain. Cook’s reassuring words, which make me cry harder. Wail louder. Hurt deeper.

  The car stops. Hands are under my arms. Lifting and pulling me across the console and into his lap. His arm is around my waist. His lips in my hair. My head on his chest. His hand on my cheek, holding me there.

  “I feel--” My breath catches. “I f-feel so c-cold,” I cry, hiccupping another sob. “On the in-inside.” I curl further into him. His grip tightens around me as he kisses my hair.

  “I know, gorgeous. I know.” But he can’t know. A man as confident as he is could never have been as broken as I feel. Yet his words still soothe me.

  His embrace is comforting. Unhurried. Patient. He rubs me. Holds me. Absorbs my pain. Carries my burden. My sobs soon weaken to sniffles. Deep shudders are diminished to light trembles. Tears flow instead of pour. The pounding ache in my chest is still there, though. Never dulling. A constant reminder.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper into his shirt.

  He tilts my head back, burning me with the intensity of his stare. “Hush.” His command is soft but firm.

  “I just don’t know what to do.” My nostrils flare and my lips tremble as I feel another wave of sadness building. This time for a completely different reason. “I want…” I clench my teeth trying to stop it. “I need…” I pull in a deep staccato breath. Guilt eats away at me. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t say it. I can’t tell him how much I need him. It’s selfish and unfair.

  His thumb brushes my cheek, catching a tear. His gaze softens as it follows the trail of his fingers across my jaw. “Say it, gorgeous,” he coaxes. “I said I got you. And I meant it.”

  My chest tightens. I’m overwhelmed with emotions. I can feel myself starting to lose it again. I fight it long enough to tell him the only truth I know. “It hurts, Cook.” His brow creases with concern. “It hurts so b-bad.” I cling to him. Weeping. Lost. Scared of what I’m feeling. Afraid I’ll never recover.

  His phone vibrates against my hip. “Please,” I whimper. Begging. Unashamed. Too frightened at the thought of him leaving me to care. “Please don’t go.” My hands fist in his shirt.

  “Shhh,” he soothes. “I’m right here.” He shifts us before somehow managing to open the door and climb out gracefully with me in his arms. “I’m not leaving.”

  His kindness has me crying harder. I’m so conflicted. Unsure of what it is I’m really feeling. Jud hurt me, but Cook’s compassion is just as devastating. I don’t understand it. Can’t figure it out. The confusion pulls at me. Tears me in half. Shreds me. Rips away my sanity.

  “Hush now.” He starts up the stairs. Carrying me as if I’m weightless. I pull in deep breaths. Using the comfort of his arms, his scent and the steady beat of his heart to calm me. “Good girl,” he praises, unlocking the door and pushing inside.

  He s
teadies me on my feet in the bathroom. After gently prying my arms from him, he grips my hands. His eyes are suddenly level with mine. They’re a vivid blue. Assertive. Demanding my attention.

  “You trust me don’t you, gorgeous?” My lip trembles as I manage something similar to a yes. “You believed me when I told you I wasn’t leaving, didn’t you?” I nod. “Then calm down. Let me take care of you.”

  I stand silent as he leaves me to turn on the shower. Almost immediately, steam fills the small bathroom. The thick heat helps to clear my stuffy head—allowing me to take deeper breaths in an attempt to calm down. But the ache in my chest is nearly unbearable. The pain is intense. I keep seeing Jud’s face. His smile. The way he looked at Clarissa. The love he obviously had for her.

  Cook peels away my soiled clothes, exposing my naked body. I wish he could do the same with my heart. Peel away the bruised layers. Strip away everything tainted by Jud until there’s nothing left but raw muscle. But I know that even there, in the deepest depths of my heart, lies corrosion.

  Taking my hand, Cook leads me under the steaming spray. I close my eyes and let the water pour over me as he takes his time washing my hair. My body. Cleansing me from the outside in. Every touch removing another layer of bad, replacing it with something good.

  Then, on a sudden epiphany, I realize my turmoil might stem from Jud’s proposal, but it’s not the reason for it.

  I don’t want to be Clarissa. I’m not envious that it was her, not me, on that stage. What hurt wasn’t seeing Jud so happy, it was watching his life move forward while mine stayed still. It pained me to see the man who deserved nothing, gain so much. He was engaged. Had moved on. Was focused on his future. And I was still living in the past—devoting my entire life to making him pay for what he’d done to me.

  At one time, Jud was my everything. But that ended a long time ago. Even before we officially broke up. I suffered through the loneliness. Endured the heartache. Channeled all my energy into rage. I was committed to hurting him, when my priority should’ve been moving on.