From This Day Forward

by Ketley Allison

  Copyright © Ketley Allison, 2018

  Visit Ketley Allison’s official website at www.ketleyallison.com for the latest news, book details, and other information

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen, Copyright 2018 Okay Creations

  Formatting by Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  I made a big mistake.

  It was too tempting to fall into old habits and accept the email request to explain his version of events, even though it was super obvious what Trevor’s side of the story was. But, in typical Trev fashion, his plaintive tone won out and he managed to morph and spin our conversation until somehow I agreed to dinner.

  Damn it, this would be the final time.

  Trev and I were done, and if he needed a few minutes to unload and plead and reminisce about our past, fine, but his chances of success were about as likely as my customers expressing gratitude through gratuity.

  I adjusted my black tank top as I poured another draft for another dude who thought his incredible come-ons would be a sufficient substitute for a tip, but you’d think I’d just flashed him my breasts, the way he was gobbling up the show. Between the constant text buzzes against my butt and the dapper compliments of college boys wanting me to lubricate their throats and their dicks, my evening shift couldn’t get any better.

  Trev: Babe.

  “I’ll take a Jack and Ginger, sweetie.”

  Trev: You’re the love of my life.

  “Just a draft, darlin’. Is it fresh? No wait, are you fresh? Haaaa.”

  Trev: You have me feeling like a bastard right now.

  “Twelve bucks,” I said to the newest patron, then cocked my head. “But my tits are worth at least a hundy.”

  College Boy Number 25 lost his concentration on my chest. “Wait, what? Twelve bucks for a beer?”

  I added the sweetest smile. “Welcome to New York City craft beer college life. Cash only.”

  “Son of a….” But he handed over a twenty and I fished his change out of the register behind me. When I plopped it down in front of him, he left nothing behind on the varnished bar but a grease stain before he went back to his group of friends and hollered at the football game on the mounted TV.

  Sighing, I moved onto the next guy, and then to the next round, as Saturday night filled up the small, off-campus dive bar called Oliver Blue, affectionately and originally called Oliver’s by the regulars and staff. We played no blues music. On rare, good nights I could bring back two-fifty in tips, and after working here for two years I could run these boys just fine. Normally their hooting and wasted come-hithers didn’t bother me and I truly admired their belief that drunken slurs of “you’re fuckin’ hot. You give me beer whenever I want it” would have me humping them on the bar. But today didn’t have the usual beginning, and thus I wasn’t in the mood to call anyone out on their habitual sleaze.

  Underneath the bar in a tiny cubby hole I called my “locker” sat my tote bag, and within that tote bag curled my recent essay from my writing class on medieval culture, and more specifically, Dante. Yep, the man who described the nine circles of Hell was the main focus of this spring semester’s class. I thought it’d be a bird to pass, as most idiots do when it comes to writing courses.

  Wrong, Beauregard. Oh so wrong.

  The professor was a nut. A smart one who dug up his jollies by soaking his class with his favorite color: Red. My paper had flesh wounds all over the place, bleeding points of where is the continuity of Western tradition here? And how is this applicable? And, my favorite part, a glaring, bold, gash of a C minus in the top corner.

  As I strode past the locker, I gave it a kick with my heel.

  My grades were slipping, and with that downward spiral would go my summer internship at Madison PR, a position I’d been gunning for ever since I entered these city streets as a freshman. I couldn’t go back to Wyoming jobless and prospect-less, otherwise my parents would employ me at their grocery market and Emme Beauregard, the girl who shot out of her small town with cannonball accuracy and wowed all her relatives by saying she was going to make it in the big city, would spend her life bagging groceries, marrying her high school sweetheart and finagling six kids.

  That storyline didn’t contain enough fervor to complete the future that I’d been fighting for for years. It might not look like I was, standing here in a dank bar which I was pretty sure housed asbestos in the wooden beams above and definitely human excretions on the floor. But this was mine: I moved here, took control, and made this chunky soup-like part of New York City my own.

  However, I would be remiss if I didn’t account for the high school sweetheart that followed me.

  Trev: Em, talk to me!!!!

  I shoved my phone back into my jeans’ pocket, finding renewed focus in mixing drinks and pouring drafts. I loved Trev very much, but it turned out he didn’t love me. For how could you truly care for a person when you’re busy banging her co-worker?

  I discovered this doozie when I picked up the wrong cell phone at work two weeks ago. We tended to leave them lying near the cash register so we could tap in quick texts, check Instagram, Snapchat, the usual, as we pretended to spend extra time counting out change. Laurie and I had a similar gold case and neither of us bothered with passcodes or fingerprints due to the necessity of being quick part. So, without really concentrating and therefore not noticing the kittens-in-a-basket background, I swiped open the phone, opened messages, found Trevor and—

  Totally recognized it. Was very familiar with it, actually, right down to the pinkish tone and silky feel to the tiniest of bumps near the tip.

  My boyfriend’s penis.

  All well and good, except he never sent me cock shots, because honestly, what was the point when I could just be home in an hour and see it in person?

  It took me a second to understand that while odd, it wasn’t completely off-putting, because I liked his penis, enjoyed it really, and maybe he was trying something new in our six year relationship. But then the gasp came beside me and a tanned forearm flew into my vision and yanked the thought right out of my hands.

  “That’s my phone!” Laurie said, and tucked it into the back of her denim skirt.

  I froze for a moment, empty hand dangling in midair, as a horrible dawning smoothed out every single one of my features. “I’m sorry, your phone?”

  “Yeah,” she said, then pointed to the other gold-cased phone beside the cash register. “There’s yours.”

  “My bad,” I said, and she wheeled away, blond waves arcing gracefully, her perky butt now my focal point. I added, “But do you mind finishing off that text I was writing to Trev asking him if he’s bringi
ng home any syphilis by sticking his dick in you?”

  That got the attention of the people hanging by the bar, as well as Laurie’s. And infuriating tartlet that she is, she didn’t bother to deny it. “How can I, when it feels so good?”

  I wish I could say I latched onto her hair extensions and spun her into the bottles lined up behind us, shattering both their glass and her stupid face, but I needed this job. So instead I replied, chin up, “He’s yours. Enjoy listening to him sucking on his teeth at night,” and followed that up with a simple text to Trevor.

  We’re done.

  Fast forward two weeks, one hundred and fifty text messages and eighteen emails from Trev later and here I was, working side by side with Laurie, hiding a C average for this semester and possessing B-cup boobs that while apparently nice to look at, weren’t gaining me any currency.

  “Hey, mind if I order?”

  …and add six more hours with drunk college sophomores and their bottomless beer bellies to that list.

  I drew on the brightest smile I could and met my new customer’s eye. “What’ll it be?”

  “Just a beer. Yuengling, I guess.”

  I grabbed a glass but glanced back at the guy a couple of times as I poured. He seemed different. Way too sober for one, and a little bit older than what usually babooned through this place. Scruffy, sandy hair, light eyes, angular jaw. I topped off his draft and slid it in front of him. He left fifteen dollars on the wood and then proceeded to knock my pants off.

  Clear green eyes that punched right through me and a tiny chin cleft I wanted to press my thumb into, all paired with a head tilt and a gentle lift of fingers as thanks. As such, I inched away from him as soon as I professionally could.

  I greatly disliked anything charming enough to bemuse me, because that kind of talent only came from those who knew how to use it.

  He said, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  Never mind. “I don’t think so.”

  “No, I mean it.” He eased closer. “You’re familiar, not simply a lady I’m tipping a whole three dollars to talk to me.”

  My lips twitched.

  “We have a class together, I think. Dante in Modern Times with Professor Harper. Right?” he asked.

  Blegh. “Yeah, I suppose we do.”

  Though now that he mentioned it, he did look familiar. I had the sneaking suspicion he was the tousled head of hair three rows and two seats in front of me that I played imaginary lasers with, also known as a one-player game where I pretended my eyes were lethal red beams that shot into his skull every time he flashed a paper with A :) in the top right corner.

  “I’m Spencer. Spence,” he said, holding out his hand, which against my better judgment, I took. It was calloused, warm, completely dry and unlike the usual bar hands I shook that were damp and freezing.

  “Emme, like the awards statue,” I said, and followed up with, “Except with an E at the end instead of a Y.”

  Then cringed.

  “How’d you do on the paper?” he asked.

  “You mean, that whole ‘how are Dante’s literary conclusions related to the social development of Western civilization’ thing?” I waved him off. “Totally aced it.”

  “Wow.” Spence rested his forearms on the bar. “I never knew staring at a phone for entire lectures would be the secret sauce of success.”

  I zeroed in on him with squinty eyes. “I’m very busy looking stuff up.”

  “Uh-huh. And when your head falls back, are you drooling out the answers to Dante’s universe?”

  I bent to his level, our elbows almost touching. “You are a fairly presumptuous asshole, you know that?”

  He grinned, and it was even better close up. “Harper’s a tough one. You basically have to tape your eyelids open and record his lectures ten times over to score any kind of A in his class. There’s an idea. Maybe that’s what you can do with your phone. In between nap time, of course.”

  I pushed off the bar and answered someone’s yell for another pitcher by grabbing an empty jug, but had the time to retort, “Is that what you do to maintain your coveted position near Harper’s ass?”

  Spence followed me to the draft station. “You noticed, huh?”

  “You detected my drool. It’s only fair I catch the A-plus-pluses Harper lays out on your desk before you purse your lips.”

  His brows furrowed with emphasized contrition. “Don’t hate me because it works.”

  “Hey, kiss ass proudly. You said it yourself, his classes are the first circle of hell.”

  “Let me help you.”

  Spence seemed as surprised to have said it as I was to have heard it. I fumbled the pitcher, foam spilling over the sides. “What makes you think I need any?”

  “Your face.”

  I barked out a laugh. “Excuse me?”

  “As soon as I mentioned the D-name this whole bar came under a storm cloud, and you know where the eye of that looming hurricane was? Right there.” He pointed toward my nose. “Big ol’ frowny face.”

  This time my laugh was coupled with a shake of my head. “Believe me, buddy, this squall has been forming for weeks now.”

  “Then let me at least lighten it up a bit,” he said, kindly. Jesus Christ—endearingly was the better word.

  I set the pitcher on the bar. Phantom hands went for it, green bills were left after it, but I barely noticed. “Are you offering to tutor me?”

  Spence shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  Where was the catch, I wondered, because rarely was anything offered so guilelessly. I glanced down at my breasts, wondering if they had more power than I gave them credit for. “I can’t accept and give nothing in return. I’ll pay you.”

  Spence dragged his teeth across his lower lip, hiding a smirk. “There’s no way I’d tutor for free.”

  I snorted, readying for another eye roll. “Of course not.”

  “I do it part time, especially for Harper’s class,” he said, then winked. “Unfortunately, you’re not my first.”

  “But I’m unique enough for you to notice me two rows behind you scrolling through my phone.”

  “No, that would be your ringing entrance a few weeks ago,” he said, and I winced at the memory of rushing in late and my metal water canteen rolling under the seats. “But apparently I am, for you to know what row I’m in.”

  Damn it. I covered his win by tucking my long hair back and fishing for ice.

  Laurie picked that time to bump into me, scattering cubes everywhere. She snarled, “Some of us are working here.”

  I ignored her, but Spence sent a wry glance her way as she passed. “She seems nice.”

  “Feel free to forget to tip my boyfriend’s mistress often,” I said.

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “So tomorrow afternoon then?” I asked, and dumped ice into three glasses.

  “Uh. Sure,” Spencer said, and backed away from the bar as I busied myself. “Library at three?”

  “Great. Make sure you bring all your work to date. I want to see if you’re as good as advertised,” I said and turned around to find the vodka, but tossed over my shoulder, “‘I ain’t paying until you prove your worth.”

  “Emme, believe me, I am that good,” he said to my back, but I sensed the confidence, the utter sexiness of his conviction, in those words.

  I stifled my amusement though he couldn’t see and didn’t respond. By the time I finished mixing and plopped the vodka-sodas in front of their new owner, Spence was long gone.

  “Thank you. But one’s for you,” someone said in front of me.

  I blinked a few times, focusing on the present and the guy standing across the bar. “I’m sorry?”

  “I got one vodka-soda for you,” he said, and gently pushed one back toward me. He seemed to redden under my silence. “I mean…that’s what girls drink, right? Vodka-soda? Because of the low calories?”

  While his voice was soft, almost high, the guy was very tall, lanky even, with carefully slicked-back
dark brown hair, huge almond eyes of the same color, and a smile that was somehow made awkward with his cosmetically straight, bleached teeth. His stare wouldn’t leave my face as he waited for my answer, and mine wouldn’t leave his. There was an intense earnestness emitting from him and the oddest sensation came over me, almost as if I were a white mouse caught in a snake's cage.

  Which was ridiculous. Many people, drunk and sober alike, offered to buy me drinks and this guy was no different. I added a wink. “Honey, I’m a straight whisky kinda gal.”

  “Oh.” Flustered, he cupped both drinks, his large hands dwarfing the glasses. His knuckles went white. “Let me get you that, then.”

  I capped off my wink with a smile. “I don’t drink on the job, but thank you.”

  There was no time for him to respond because someone else wanted a rye-and-ginger, and then another three pints of beer, and so it went. Throughout my service, the guy didn’t move, despite the many elbows and snide comments encouraging him to do so.

  And during the entirety of my shift, I felt his eyes on my back.

  “Since when does studying require a halter top?”

  One of my roommates, Becca Reese, stood in the doorway to my bedroom, crossing her arms.

  “For your information,” I said, and threw on a maroon hoodie over my tight, black, gym top, “I’m working out after I meet Spence.”

  “Uh-huh.” Becca waltzed into the room and landed on my bed, propping herself up on my pile of pillows. As she inspected one, I snapped it out of her hands.

  “That’s new. You can’t have it,” I said, and threw it to the foot of the bed.

  She pouted. Becca, my dear best friend and roommate for almost two years ever since we were paired up as freshman, adored my love for throw pillows and often wandered in and stole as many as she could when she thought I wouldn’t notice. Why she didn’t go out and buy her own was a good question, but I guessed it was because the adrenaline rush of thievery was more satisfying.