I type a text. Had a really nice time tonight. How lame! I erase that, staring down at my phone before trying again. It was nice seeing you. Ugh, delete again. I really want to fuck you. I laugh out loud and hit the erase button. I stare up at my ceiling, thinking about her blue eyes, the tiny flecks of gold in them, the way she twirls her hair when she’s nervous, how red her lips are, and how she smells like my shampoo. I try one last time. Been thinking about you. I hit the send button.
I look down at my hard dick and suddenly realize that my text could seem kinda dirty. Oh, God, I hope she doesn’t take it that way. This dating thing is way too hard. It’s much easier to say suck my cock and move on. My phone dings, and I look down.
That’s very sweet.
I laugh. The second time today a woman referred to me as sweet, although this time I really like it. Perhaps too much.
Quickly, I type back. When can I see you again?
Her response comes quickly.
Lunch. Saturday. My hotel.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Day one without sex again—third time’s a charm, right?
Annie called in sick. I can’t remember her ever taking a sick day before, and if I were a betting man, I’d bet she isn’t sick today. Finding me in bed with two women no doubt put her over the edge. Me yelling at her didn’t help, either. I’m not always the easiest person to work for. I know that.
I walk up to Annie’s front door carrying her favorite Chinese takeout. It isn’t fine dining, but I know Annie won’t care. I actually hear her groan before she opens the door. She must really be upset, but when the door opens, she still meets me with a smile, but she doesn’t look like my Annie—dressed all in black, matching the dark circles under her eyes.
“I think I still owe you dinner,” I say, holding the takeout sack under her nose. “Thanks for the hookup with Sutton.”
“Better not have just been a hookup,” she says, stepping to the side so I can walk in.
I’ve been to Annie’s before, but not in a while. I think I pay her too well. Her condo is in a great part of the Warehouse District, nestled among art galleries and nice restaurants. It isn’t big, though. Basically, a loft—everything including the bedroom is all in one space. The only room divided is the bathroom. Annie has the whole place decorated in a way that screams female. Everything is white. That’s a lot of pressure on us men. And damn if she doesn’t walk right over to her white sofa, placing the food down on the coffee table.
“Soda? Water?” she asks, knowing I don’t drink.
“Water,” I say, trying to think of something that won’t stain. I don’t want to have to buy her a new sofa.
“Have you heard from Tawny?” she asks.
Pulling out my phone, I pull up some pictures Tawny’s sent me since she arrived in New York—the dorm room where she’s staying, her with the Statue of Liberty in the background, her and some enormous ice cream sundae. I hand Annie my phone so she can scroll through them. “Looks like she’s having fun.”
Nodding, I pick a prescription bottle up off her counter and ask, “Are you really sick?”
“No, those help me sleep,” she says, taking the bottle from me and handing me back my phone. “I just needed a day, Pierce.”
“You deserve it. You put up with a lot of my shit.”
Annie walks to her kitchen, grabbing a couple of glasses. I roam around, looking at a canvas propped up on an easel. It’s abstract, but it still makes the pit of my stomach clench. It’s mostly done in black with just tinges of red, but it doesn’t look like paint. I don’t want to touch it for fear of messing it up. “What material did you use?”
Annie’s eyes meet mine. “Paint and my own blood.”
“I’ve heard of suffering for your art, but that’s fucking commitment.” She walks over, handing me a glass of water. “It’s really good. Dark and twisted, but in the best way.” She just shrugs. “This is what you should be doing,” I tell her. “Not organizing my calendar.”
“You trying to get rid of me?” she asks with the slightest hint of a smile.
“Never,” I say. “When are you going to paint something for the hotel? I’ve only been asking you since I bought the place.”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Just maybe not in your blood.”
We both laugh and take a seat on the sofa, placing the drinks and napkins on the coffee table. I look over at her. “Talk to me, Annie. I know something’s off with you. You can talk to me. Hell, you know all my secrets.”
She curls her legs under her. “It’s stupid.”
I absolutely hate it when women do that. Call themselves names, put themselves down, especially if it’s over men. We really aren’t worth it. But this is more than that. “I’m worried about you.” She exhales. “You’re off. The drinking the other night. The clothes. Calling in sick. Hell, even this painting.”
“Old ghosts,” she whispers. I tense and move to get up, and she captures my hand. “Don’t you ever . . .”
“No,” I snap.
“I need to talk about it. That night.”
“We agreed not to ever talk about it again. You promised me,” I say, feeling my heart start to pound.
“The silence. It’s killing me,” she cries.
“It’s the only thing keeping me alive.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
You know the saying, things can always get worse? Well, I’m living proof it’s true. I thought it was bad when my dad would show up, screw my mom, and leave. I thought it was bad when she lost the baby. But none of that was as bad as when he left. Two years since he walked out that door. Two years of my mom crying. Two years of refusing to go visit him and his wife, who’s decided she wants to play stepmom. If he doesn’t want my mom, then he can’t have me.
He sent us money, but not much more than he used to, so I took a part-time job at a local hotel, doing all the work no one else wanted to do. The owner paid me under the table, so it was a win-win.
My dad tried to stop by a few times, but he and my mom just fought. Once his wife found out about us, he ended his relationship with my mom, saying he had to stay away. He couldn’t leave her because of their prenup. Bullshit, bullshit, and more bullshit.
I hoped my mom would get over it. I thought her dating again was a good sign, but it only made me realize how horrible her taste in men really was. Let’s put it this way, my dad was a prize.
The latest guy moved his shit right in. Hitting my mom seemed to be his favorite past time. I looked over at my mom, standing in front of the mirror with a brush in her hand. Even with all she’d been through, she was still beautiful.
I saw her wince and knew he must’ve hit her again last night while I was at work. She threw a pain pill in her mouth. Getting up, I walked over and took the brush from her. She gave me a sad smile, and I helped pull her hair up into the ponytail they required at the restaurant where she worked.
“I’m going to kick his ass.”
She said my name softly. “You’re just a boy.”
“I’m fourteen.”
She smiled at me like only a mom can. “It’s not bad this time.”
The front door opened, and Annie waltzed in, giving us both a smile, but it was fake. Her normally light blonde hair was dyed pink, matching her red, swollen eyes. “What are you two doing tonight?” my mom asked.
“Just hanging out,” I said, looking at Annie with obvious concern. My mom didn’t think twice about leaving Annie and me alone. Aside from that kiss on the levee two years ago, we’d only ever been friends. My mom knew that.
My mom kissed my cheek then Annie’s before heading out the door. As soon as the door closed behind her, Annie started crying. Pulling her down on the couch, I asked, “What happened?”
“He dumped me,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”
I could. Annie’s taste in men was as bad as my mother’s. “I tried to tell you he’s a douchebag.”
“I had sex with him,” she whispered,
looking down and picking the blue nail polish off her fingernails.
The only word that came out of my mouth was, “Oh.”
“It was last weekend,” she said. “In his car. God, I’m that girl. The one who bangs guys in their car.”
“Last weekend?” I asked. “And he broke up with you today?”
She nodded, burying her face in my neck. “I’m so stupid. It wasn’t special. It wasn’t even good. He was stoned and . . .”
“Were you?” I asked, knowing Annie partied hard.
“No,” she said.
“Add him to the list of guys I’m going to fuck up,” I snapped.
“I just don’t know why guys lie,” she said. “You should at least respect a girl enough to be honest. Not make her think one thing then dump her.
“You’re right.”
“Don’t turn into one of those guys,” Annie said. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll always be you.”
“I promise.”
She kissed my cheek, hopping up. “Your mom got any beer in the refrigerator?” Annie asked. “I need to get hammered.”
“Probably for that dickhead boyfriend of hers.”
She opened the refrigerator, pulling out the entire six pack. “Join me?”
I shook my head. I never did any of the stuff Annie did. I figured one of us needed to be thinking straight, or no telling what would happen. Plus, someone had to clean up her puke. She plopped back down next to me then reached into her pocket.
“I do have this.” She held up a joint. “Stole it from that asshole after he dumped me.”
Drinking was one thing, but not drugs. My mom would flip her shit if she found out. “You can’t do that in here.”
“Square,” she said, shoving it back in her pocket. She looked over at me. “You think I’m a slut now, don’t you?”
“You lost your virginity to an asshole. I don’t think that makes you a slut.”
“How do you know I was a virgin?” she asked.
I gave her a look. We knew everything about each other. “Same way you know I am,” I said. “Please tell me he was careful, at least.”
She nodded. “God, what if I got pregnant? I mean, I know I’m not, but . . .”
“I’d take care of you,” I said.
She smiled then elbowed me. “With your part-time job at the hotel?”
I laughed. “I just meant I’d be there for you.”
She leaned her head on my shoulder. “So you don’t think I’m a slut?”
“I could never think that, no matter how many cars you ruin.” That time I got a hard elbow to my ribcage. “But I do think you need to pick a better guy next time.”
She cuddled in closer. “Me, too.”
I heard the key hit the lock and knew it wasn’t my mother. It’s funny how you can tell things like that. My mom unlocking the front door sounded different than when the douchebag did it. My mom’s footsteps sounded different from Annie’s. I could always tell them apart, and I never wanted to hear his footsteps or key again.
Sick of being the one to have to fix my mother’s hair, sick of watching guys use my mom and Annie, I flew to my feet, determined to protect them. As soon as he opened the door, I yelled, “You hit my mom for the last fucking time!”
Wish I could say that I kicked his ass without him getting a single lick in, but things didn’t go down that way. I got the early jump on him, but if it wasn’t for Annie distracting him by throwing everything in our kitchen cabinets at his head, I doubt the ending would’ve been in my favor. I may not have won clean, but he never came back into our house and that was all that mattered.
I sat on the edge of the tub, my mom and Annie both crying and tending to the gash over my eye, my bleeding nose, and what I’m sure were a couple bruised ribs. “I’m sorry, baby,” my mom said. “I never thought he’d hit you.”
“I started it,” I said. She pulled me into her arms, the guilt clearly weighing on her. When she started dating him, I wasn’t big enough. Hell, I still wasn’t big enough. But if I waited any longer, I was afraid she’d end up in the hospital.
I looked over my shoulder at Annie and mouthed, “Your guy’s next.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I can’t shake what happened with Annie last night. I barely slept. I don’t typically worry about the future or the past. I prefer to live in the moment, but the past has a way of keeping me up.
Old ghosts—that’s what Annie called it. And for some reason, those old ghosts are being made new again for her, but I won’t let that happen to me. I can’t deny that the past is creeping in more and more, but I’ve learned there’s no value in looking back. I’m sure Dr. Lorraine wouldn’t agree. Still, I’m only looking at what’s right in front of me.
Sutton.
She’s standing in front of a mirror in her hotel lobby messing with her hair. I move out of her sightline. She pulls it up, tilts her head, lets it down, runs her fingers through it, then starts the whole ritual over again. It’s sweet she wants to look nice for me.
I look down at my pants and dress shirt. I’ve given no thought at all to what I look like. She blows out a puff of air, sending a strand of hair flying up. Her lips start to move. I wish I could hear what she’s saying to herself.
She seems to be giving herself a pep talk. Either I make her really nervous, or she’s second-guessing inviting me to lunch. Then she starts back in on her hair.
Grinning, I walk right up behind her and take her hair in my hands. She jumps slightly as her eyes catch mine in the mirror. I run my fingers through her thick, brown hair, which still smells like my shampoo, leaving me to wonder if she left it that way on purpose. Does she want to smell like me? I hold out my hand for her to give me the ponytail holder. Holding my eyes, she slides it into my hand. I pull her hair through and twist it around a few times, then give it a gentle tug. “Perfect.”
She glances in the mirror, admiring my work. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“My mom,” I say, clearing my throat a little. She turns around, holding my gaze, but not saying a word. “Still trying to decide whether this is a mistake?” I ask.
She cracks a smile. “I decided it was a mistake the moment I invited you.”
I lean into her. “A mistake you’re willing to make.”
She shakes her head at me, placing her hand on my chest. “A mistake my heart can’t afford to make. So please prove me wrong.”
“Nothing would make me happier,” I say, taking her hand and leading her into the hotel restaurant.
*
I manage to make small talk while we order, even though my dick is practically yelling for this woman to ride him hard. I try to focus on her, the way her voice sounds, the gold flecks in her blue eyes, the way she twirls her ponytail.
“I’d love to see some of the changes you’ve made to the hotel after lunch,” I say.
The waiter places our entrees in front of us. I look down at my plate. I’d ordered sea scallops on her recommendation, but I can tell just by looking they aren’t cooked properly. Basically, you just sear them to a nice gold, but these are almost black. She ordered the same thing, and she also seems concerned, twirling her ponytail with force.
I’m the man here. I have to be brave. I pick up my fork and knife, flipping a scallop over. That side doesn’t even look like it’s touched the frying pan. I manage to cut through the thing and stab it with my fork. I’m going to eat the damn thing, smile, and act like it’s delicious. I won’t embarrass her.
I lift the fork to my mouth and take a bite. God, it’s horrible, raw on one side, burnt on the other, swimming in grease. Swallow, damn it. Women swallow your come, you can swallow this damn fish.
Her blue eyes close, her napkin covering her face, and she busts out laughing. It’s almost like she can read my thoughts. “I can’t believe you ate that.”
I continue to try to chew, covering my mouth, and laugh out, “Not yet.”
She laughs harder. “Please, spit it out.”<
br />
“Thank you,” I say, spitting it into my napkin and taking a long drink of water. “Um, that was . . .”
“Disgusting,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m so embarrassed. Your food was so delicious and pretty and this is . . . Well, I’m not quite sure what it is.” Her eyes wide, she scans the room. “If this is what they’re feeding the owner. . . oh, God, what are the guests eating?”
The panic in her voice makes her seem so young. I go right into rescue mode, saying, “Comp everyone’s meal, apologize, and change the menu to something simple until you can hire a more sophisticated chef.”
She nods, gets to her feet, and busily goes to every table to talk to her guests. Then she disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes. When she comes back out, she looks exhausted. She really needs some help. I get to my feet and meet her halfway.
“I’m sorry about lunch. You must think I have no business running a hotel,” she says quietly. “Maybe I don’t.” She starts to walk off, and I capture her hand. Her skin’s smooth and soft under my fingers. She lifts her chin and looks into my eyes.
“Why don’t you show me around, show me some positive changes you’ve made?”
“I guess I could,” she says. “Most of the changes have been to the guest rooms.”
I intertwine our fingers. “Great, give me the grand tour.”
She glances down at our hands, a little smile on her lips. The four-story building is big enough that it doesn’t feel like a bed and breakfast, yet small enough that it’s not overwhelming. Walking through the place feels like walking through one of New Orleans’ old speakeasies—moody and full of history.
She guides me through the lobby and toward the downstairs conference rooms and a couple of guest room floors. The linens have all been updated to a nice luxury look, but the conference rooms need a lot of work. She spends time telling me about the history of the place, and a brief rundown on her family.
To the Fall Page 9
