Before Deklan stormed into my life, I took refuge in the many adventures and lives of the books I stocked. I missed books: once a reader, always a reader right? But I haven’t picked up a book in what felt like forever. The books I had collected over the years were now gone, having been destroyed by my mother in a very Fahrenheit 451 kind of way.
My books.
That would be my quest today.
With a purpose in mind, I began roaming around Deklan’s small one-bedroom apartment; I’d never thought to explore until now. His apartment was beyond small, with only one window and a few walls separating the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen I could do a full about face and have seen the whole apartment. I looked into the cabinets in the kitchen, noticing that he seriously needed to go to a grocery store soon. He was the epitome of a bad alpha man who had only lived on take out, sex, and the word fuck, which he used for everything. But underneath that hard sculpted body and that dirty mouth was a Deklan not many people saw. Underneath was someone who was just as wounded as I was.
Unlike me, it didn’t cripple him; he embraced it. I’m guessing only one other person had seen that side of him, and that person, his mother; had died two weeks ago.
It made the fire in my heart for him burn brighter knowing that he opened up to me on that level. That had to mean something, right? People don’t give a part of themselves to you if they don’t care, right? Sometimes that thought, that question, was all I had to cling to when it seemed like I wouldn’t come back from the dark place inside myself. It kept me grounded when he was away, comforted me, protected me. It was what I was concentrating on now as I meandered my way around, hoping to stumble upon Deklan’s reading material. There is nothing hotter than a guy who reads; it was how Deklan and I first met.
If someone had told me three weeks ago that not only would I leave home, but that I’d leave home with him, the James Dean doppelgänger, I would have flipped them off for fucking with my head. Yet, here I was, and I still didn’t know how I felt about that. Deklan and I were strangers. Sure, he knew my body, very well and I his, but we still didn’t know each other. I wanted to know so much about him, his hopes, his dreams, and his fear. Once you knew a person’s fear, you knew their heart.
I wanted to know about the half-moon scars on his back; I knew they came from a belt buckle beating given to him by his father I assumed based on the venom in which he talks about him. I wanted to know why he and his brother, Matt hated each other. Why he refused to talk about his past and why he left Dacula, the town in Georgia we’re both from to live in Atlanta and work at a shit bar for even shittier pay when he didn’t have to. Deklan’s father was Royce Kane, of Kane’s Dry Cleaning, one of the most popular dry cleaning business around. The name was well known, and not just back home. There was one in almost every major city. His family swam in money, but not Deklan. I wanted to know why, not because of the money, I couldn’t care less, but because it was a part of him. He was a Kane, a name that most people would be proud to have; yet, he seemed to abhor it.
I cleared my head of this before it drove me crazy, well crazier, because I knew if I asked him, he wouldn’t tell me shit. He was a more lead the horse to the water kind of guy; and I respected that, so was I. Moving on in my quest, I came to the small hall closet by the front door that usually housed his shoes and whatever else he decided to throw in there. Since this was my first time exploring the apartment, I didn’t know what I’d find.
Back in his childhood bedroom at his parents’ house, he had had a closet full of books, everything from comics to classic novels. I had been appalled to find them in the closet, but seeing how pristine the place was, I could understand why they were hidden way. Opening the closest, I half expected to find an exact replica of that closet, but was slightly disappointed to only find running shoes, boots, and an old trunk. Damn, no books.
I found that odd; Deklan was a closet bibliophile, and he had no books stored away? It seemed suspect. Closing the closet door, intent on finding his stash, I was about to search the bedroom closet when my phone dinged from the charger in the kitchen where Deklan had left it.
He insisted on calling every night from work, knowing I wouldn’t answer. The first night he did it, I hadn’t liked worrying him when I didn’t pick up so I quickly sent him a text telling him I was okay. Since then, it had become a nightly ritual with us. It was too early for him to call now. Besides, the ding signaled an incoming text.
For a split second, I was crippled with fear; fear I hadn’t felt in almost two weeks. It couldn’t be my mother; there was a warrant for her fucking arrest. Why the hell would she be stupid enough to contact me now? She wouldn’t be, I knew this, but I still went into a mild panic attack as I walked back toward the kitchen. I shouldn’t check it; I should just wait for Deklan to call, but what if it’s him, what if he is hurt and can only text, stupid I know, but what if?
Pulling up my borrowed boxers, I swiped the screen and let out the breath I was holding when I saw it was from Ember. Huh? I hadn’t heard from her since, shit I don’t remember. Ember was my best friend, my only friend, but she didn’t really know me, the real me. She knew what everyone else did; I was a slut, I slept with anything that had a dick and didn’t care.
I don’t know if I should have been pissed at her or proud of my acting skills when she couldn’t see it was all an act; that I was so not the person I pretended to be. I didn’t know what she thought of me now. I knew she’d tried to visit me in the hospital while I was recovering from my injures, but I’d refused to see her.
No one but Deklan knew the true extent of my injuries that night, otherwise I would have been stuck in some mental facility with bad linoleum flooring, talking to strangers about my feelings. I hadn’t wanted to see Em because I knew she would look at me with pity in her eyes and accusations. Accusation was the main factor— that and the never-ending questions that would have been sure to follow. Questions I still wasn’t prepared to answer. Why hadn’t I told her? She might have helped me. Opening the text, prepared to ignore it, I was shocked by what I read.
Have you seen Matt? He hasn’t been home in three days. I’m worried.
Well, that was unexpected. One, Matt and I weren’t really besties, aside from the fact he was Deklan’s brother whom he hated almost as much as he hated his father, Matt was a douche. On more than one occasion, the asshole had straight up called me whore to my face! So I didn’t feel bad with my one-word reply.
No.
Almost immediately, she texted back.
Please, Har. I’m really worried. He hasn’t been the same after his mother’s funeral. Now, no one has seen or heard from him. My calls go straight to voicemail and that’s not like him. Can you ask Deklan, please?
I kept telling myself I shouldn’t feel obligated to do as she asked, and I should definitely not be concerned for Matt. But I am. Deklan hadn’t gone to the funeral— either because of me or other reason’s, I wasn’t sure, but it hadn’t escaped my knowledge. I hadn’t wanted him to leave me. Selfish I know, but I had needed him.
But just because I was raised by a heartless psychotic bitch, didn’t mean I was one. Ember was hurting; she loved Matt almost as much as I was sure I loved Deklan, and her hurt, her pain was palpable through the text. I tried to imagine if the situation were reversed, would she help me find Deklan, would she care? Just the thought scared me. Deciding I didn’t need the answer, I texted back saying I would try. Her relief was evident in her thank you.
She shouldn’t thank me yet; Deklan was broody on a good day, but asking about his family? That was a guaranteed way to bring out the asshole in him, and you did not want Deklan the asshole mad at you. Did I really want to do that now?
Welcome back to your life Harley.
Deklan
(Crossfade “Deep End”)
I've been quietly simmering and about ready to boil the fuck over. I was pissed at every fucking thing, and that had me grumbling like a grouchy old man. I grumbled at the assholes at w
ork, I grumbled and yelled at cars who cut me off on the road, I griped at the thirsty bitches from the bar, eager to get my attention for a fucking minute so they could tell me with their eyes or body that they wanted a quick fuck in the bathroom, closet, or parking lot. I grumbled at it all, except for the one thing that caused the grumbling.
Harley.
I couldn’t complain to her because then she might...fuck, she might pull the same shit she did two weeks ago and I couldn’t do that shit again.
I couldn’t lose someone else; it had me worrying like a fucking mother hen and being all gentle and shit when I had no clue what the fuck I was doing. Worrying pissed me off. Acting pissed me off. Hell, the unknown pissed me. I was full of piss and vinegar without an outlet, so I bottled that shit around her and bit my fucking tongue when she refused to participate in life, grit my teeth when she wouldn’t answer my fucking questions and swallowed my rage so much I was full off the shit, and one wrong word from anyone would have me fucking someone up and me in jail. What the fuck could I do for her then?
Fuck, about the same thing I was doing for her now.
Nothing.
I did nothing but let her have her fucking space. I gave her just enough space to think through whatever the fuck she needed to think through to get through this. When I saw her starting to have too much space was when I brought her back the only way I knew how. Her clinging to me while we slowly had sex was the only way I knew she was with me, in the now.
Living.
Never thought I’d say this shit, but I can’t fuck her problems away. And while I have no problem trying, I know it wasn’t helping her, and I wanted to help her, so fucking bad. I just didn’t fucking know how. The one person I would go to with this shit was dead, and I was never one to keep close friends, so I was on my own. Ember, Harley’s so called best-friend could help but there was no fucking way I was calling my bitch ass little brother to talk to his chick. Fuck that, I got this.
After driving around to clear my head then dropping by the bank, I pulled into the parking lot of Diesel and shut off my car but didn’t get out. Leaning my head on the back of the seat, I exhaled a breath. Fuck, I usually left Har at my shitty ass apartment with no problem, but after this morning, it’s been getting harder and fucking harder. I didn’t know if it’s because she wouldn’t fucking tell me what the hell was the matter or if it was the looks she gave me.
Her gorgeous eyes are always glossy with unshed fucking tears and it makes me want to track down her fucking mother and beat the shit out of her for doing this to her, for tearing her down so fucking much she would try to…fuck, I can’t even think about it let alone say it. I watch her sleep like a fucking creeper, thinking about that night I found her on the floor of her destroyed room, barely breathing, so soon after my fucking ma.
Fuck, I shook my head to clear the image from it, but it was no fucking use, that shit was going to be with me forever. The most I could do was push that shit to back of my crowded ass head. Sighing, I got out and nodded at Big Mike, the owner of this shit-hole on my way in and went straight to my station, not looking at anyone. People were used to me, they knew to stay the fuck out of my way and not to piss me off. I came in, did what I had to do, and got the fuck out of here. I didn’t have time for small talk that I couldn’t give a fuck about.
“How’s your girl?” Sal, the other bartender, asked as she came over to grab some shot glasses for her station. Sal was the only person who had a fucking clue what was going on with me, but only because I needed her to cover a few shifts for me when I got back and didn’t want to leave Harley alone. But she only knew a little. I didn’t like anyone in my shit, and I damn sure didn’t like anyone in Harley’s shit. Sal just knew my girlfriend from back home came with me and she had been ‘sick’. That was all she needed to know. Sal didn’t pry; she respected my privacy and left it at that. Her asking about Har was just the type of chick she was.
I grumbled out a “she’s good” and went back to preparing for the night. Bartending was easy; most people came in wanting beer and for those who had a particularly hard night, got the top shelf shit. The occasional chick would roll through and want some fancy ass tropical shit, but nothing I couldn’t handle. The tips were where the money was; on a slow night I could pull what I needed for utilities. On a good night, rent was made plus food for a week, and Diesel had more good nights than slow. Before the doors opened, I checked my phone like a bitch, making sure Harley hadn’t texted me, I did that shit now, checked my phone like a girl seeing if her crush called. Seeing nothing, I stuffed the phone back in my pocket, and as the doors opened, I downed a shot of Jack and let the warmth clear out my worry.
About an hour before the end of my shift, a group of college girls crowded around my side of the bar, each one of them eye fucking me, licking their lips, and shit. One had the balls to suck on her finger, winding her tongue around it, clearly showing me what she would do if that were my dick. Normally, I would absolutely be down with fucking her mouth in the bathroom then taking her and all of her friends to the ratty ass motel down the street for a party. Normally.
Just thinking about another woman slammed my mind with visions of Harley’s perfect lips around my dick, of her touching me, breathing out my name as her pussy gripped me tight, and I knew I was ruined for any other woman. I enjoyed sex, a lot; shit, I enjoyed it so much I had no problem fucking some bar slut then finding a different bar slut to go home with and fuck. It was my therapy if I had to put a name on it. I wasn’t a sex addict or anything, I could go without if I wanted to and have, but when you had bitches practically shoving their pussy in your face, you took what was offered, and any man who didn’t was either gay or had better pussy at home.
That was my case now, I had better at home, and yes these chicks were hot, but none of them compared to Harley. None of them looked at me with expressive brown eyes or had pink lips that were as soft as silk. Fake, all these bitches were fake; all they wanted was one night, one night I wasn’t willing to give anymore.
“What are you having?” I asked as I wiped down bar. Finger sucker, pushed her way to the center of the group and leaned over the bar, showing off her nice, but fake breasts. I wasn’t even tempted to glance down.
“What do you think?” she purred. She wasn’t slick; I knew she was asking about something else other than a fucking drink, but I played the dumb as shit bartender, I didn’t have time for this shit. I needed to get closed and get home.
“Beer?” I suggested, watching her pout those glossy lips of hers. Her friends were all giggling around her like the groupies they were. I fucking hated these types, all fake and privileged, thinking they would be bad for a night and fuck a gritty bartender.
“Um, no, beer is so gross. Do you have something sweeter I can put in my mouth?” Her voice rose above AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long all whiny and grading on my fucking nerves. Time to shut this shit down. Leaning over the bar, I got close enough to smell what I was sure was well over the legal limit of alcohol wafting off her. It gave her and her friends the wrong fucking idea, and I said loud enough for them all to hear. “My dick, but since that’s not on the menu, how about a long island iced tea, or get the fuck away from my bar?”
Her face froze while her friends looked from me to her assessing if I was bullshitting or not. I wasn’t, and the look in my eyes must have told finger sucker that, because she mumbled out a round of long islands and turned her back to the bar. Messaged received loud and fucking clear.
“One of these days you're gonna piss off the wrong person,” Sal said as she came over to help me with the round now that the bar wasn’t as packed.
“Ask me if I give a shit.” I really didn’t.
“Maybe you should, you’re already on the shit list from your time off. I’d be careful.” She meant well, but I have a mother. Correction, had. I had a mother; I didn’t need a fucking replacement.
“Still don’t give a shit, Sal.” Let Mike can my ass, this town was fill
ed with shitty ass bars; I’d be good. I poured the last of the drinks and let Sal serve up the rest. I should feel bad, but I didn’t.
“Cash them out for me?” I asked Sal as I hopped over the bar and headed to the back, pulling out my phone. She never picked up, ever. It had become some stupid as shit game of sorts. I’d call, she wouldn’t fucking answer, I’d hang up worried as fuck, only for her to text me two seconds later to tell me she was fine. It annoyed the fuck out of me, but it was something I felt compelled to do every fucking night. It calmed whatever the hell it was in me that needed to know she was safe. Only this time she picked up on the first ring.
Well, fuck me.
“You good?” I asked, trying to clear the shock from my voice.
She cleared her throat and replied, “Yeah,” in a voice that made me want to rush home and hold her. The fuck? Where had that feeling come from? I was not a hugger and she was the only one that I have hugged besides my ma, and I had only done that once. But there was that fucking feeling; that need to hug her, claim her, and mark her fucking soul so much that it erased all that bad shit.
Hurt Me: A 'Me' Novel Page 2
