by Lisa Sorbe
I reach down and rub my pendant between my thumb and forefinger. “Oh, you have no idea.”
The desire emanating from Trevor is palpable, and even though I don’t return the sentiment, I bask in the attention. There’s no better feeling than having a man under your complete control.
Victoria slaps her hand on the table, making poor Braden jump. “Shots!” she announces. “We need shots. Trev, snag the waitress.”
Ugh. Shots. I rarely do them. Buzzed is one thing, but being flat-out drunk is another. I like to keep my wits about me, not look like an ass who can’t control her liquor. Plus, there’s nothing sexy about a woman slurring her words and vomiting on your shoes.
Trevor waves the waitress over and orders four shots of whiskey, paying for it with a crisp fifty and telling her – loudly, so everyone at the table can hear – to keep the change. While we wait, Braden tries to engage me in small talk about his job – he’s a budget analyst for the City, yawn – and I try to look interested.
Maybe I will take that shot…
Just as the drinks arrive, my phone buzzes. It’s not a number I recognize, so I let it go to voice mail. Victoria insists on a cheer, so we clink our glasses together before tossing them back. The liquid burns on its way down, a trail of fire in my throat that spreads warmly throughout my chest. I glance over at Braden, whose pale face has turned a blotchy red, and snicker. He presses his lips together and swallows back a gag.
“Not a whiskey drinker, I take it?”
Braden shakes his head, his face reddening even more.
My phone goes off again, vibrating against the table top. It’s the same unknown number, but I’m feeling sort of lax and mushy from the shot so I pick it up this time. The first thing I hear is sniffling and a far-away, squeaky little voice. “Grandma?”
Any sense of looseness I gained from the shot dissolves. My shoulders tense.
“Jen?” And then, softer, “No, honey. I’m calling your mom.”
I sigh. Emilia’s sitter. “Yes, this is Jen. Just give me a sec.” Getting up, I waggle my phone and motion toward the back of the room where, behind a set of double doors, a short hallway leads to the restrooms. Once through, the noise dimmed down to a dull roar, I press the phone back to me ear. “What can I do for you?”
Mary Jo swallow before she speaks. I’ve never met her, but my mom has been using her for the last year and raves about her. Someone she met through a friend of a friend after Emilia’s previous sitter – the old bag who used to watch Fox and me when we were kids – fell and broke her hip. Apparently, Mary Jo is young and fun and doesn’t have to worry about crumbling bones any time soon. From what I understand, Emilia adores her.
“It’s MJ… I mean, Mary Jo. Emilia’s sitter? I’m so sorry to bother you.” Her voice quivers, the nerves in her apology obvious.
She pauses, and I realize she’s waiting for me to speak. “Fine. It’s fine.” Underneath the assurance, though, a layer of exasperation bleeds through. I clear my throat. “What’s going on?”
Again, little squeaks in the background. “But I” – sniffle – “want” – sniffle – “Grandma!”
“Emilia’s sick.”
Shit.
I lean my shoulder against the wall, hug my waist.
“She woke up about hour ago and threw up. No fever, but the poor thing is clammy and miserable. She’s definitely got a bug of some sort.”
The doors open behind me, and the chatter from the bar briefly enters the hallway. A man walks past – white t-shirt and dark jeans – and heads toward the Men’s room. I admire his broad shoulders for a second before turning my attention back to the matter at hand.
My daughter is sick. And I don’t feel a goddamn thing but annoyed.
The doors open again, the raucous filling the small space and rushing over Mary Jo’s words. “… home.”
I cover my free ear with one hand. “It’s loud in here. Can you repeat that?”
“Emilia wants to go home. And I think it might be a good idea. I know your parents were planning to pick her up tomorrow afternoon, but… She’s just so upset, and I think it’s making her feel even worse. I haven’t been able to calm her down…” Mary Jo’s voice trails off. “I’m so sorry for asking, but do you think you could come over and pick her up? I just… I think she’d feel better at home. In her own bed. I’m sorry,” she says again.
You should be sorry, I want to say. You’re a babysitter and you can’t handle a sick kid?
I feel a presence at my back, one that smells like musky cologne and whiskey, and glance over my shoulder. Trevor is standing close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. He brushes the back of his fingers over my upper arm, feathering them against my bare skin. His touch gives me chills, although not the good kind. He’s tall and muscular, and for a moment he reminds me of Julian – his size, the dark features – though he’s nowhere near as good-looking. The smile that slithers across his face is slippery and anything but sweet.
I raise my brows and give him a what the fuck look, but the asshole is so full of himself he doesn’t get the message. Instead he moves closer, presses himself against me. Sliding his hand over mine, he gently pulls it away from my ear and leans down, his lips brushing my hair. “You coming back soon or what, huh?” His voice is a silky whisper, bathing my cheek in a warm breath.
I try to edge away, but Trevor snakes his arm around my waist. In the background, Emilia’s sniffles escalate to sobs.
“I’ll text you my address,” Mary Jo offers.
Trevor thrusts his hips against my ass, hard on throbbing at full mast.
Gag.
Victoria’s my ride, and there’s no way she’s going to want to leave to pick up a sick child. “Look, I don’t exactly have a ride…”
But Mary Jo doesn’t hear me thanks to the retching sounds Emilia is starting to make between sobs. In the background I hear, “Hang on, sweetie. Your mom’s coming.”
In an effort to get away from Trevor, I turn my body toward the wall. But now I feel blocked in. When I shove back against him, trying to shake him off, he takes it the wrong way and pulls me closer. “Or,” he murmurs, sliding his hands to my hips and swaying against me, “we could just stay back here.”
I twist around and push my palm into his chest. But I might as well be pushing against the wall for all the good it does.
Mary Jo comes back on the line, and she sounds exhausted. “So I’ll see you soon, then?”
Trevor’s mouth finds my ear, and he sounds excited. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night…”
Emilia’s belly sobs in the background rise to a shriek. “G’ma!”
And then, just as I’m about to lose it, the door to men’s room opens and a much too familiar face steps out.
Miles.
Miles the Mechanic.
Miles fucking Wright.
Miles, who set the tone for this whole horrible evening when he left me at that soup kitchen for two hours.
His eyes widen when he sees me, and I’d laugh at his comical deer-caught-in-headlights look if every single thing around me wasn’t falling apart right now.
“Trevor,” I hiss, “get the fuck off –”
Someone pushes through the doors, the noise from the bar swirling in around us.
“Bitch!”
Trevor shoves me away, my skull smacks against the wall, and Miles’s head whips towards the door.
Victoria.
A tinny voice in my ear. “Jen? Are you there?”
You have got to me kidding me.
“Do you ever have a dull moment?”
“Go to Hell.”
Miles smirks. “I would, but isn’t that your final destination?”
Any hope of cajoling Victoria for a ride to Mary Jo’s is long gone. Evaporated the moment she stormed out of the hallway, a sniveling Trevor in her wake.
“Hello? Are you there?”
Mary Jo’s voice floats up from my phone, which is clutched in my hand and ha
nging limply by my side. I would normally tell her to just deal with it, but if word got back to my parents that I left my sick, distressed daughter with her stressed babysitter, I’d never hear the end of it. In fact, it may just be the ammunition they need to cut me off for good. I bring the cell to my ear, sighing. “Yeah, okay. I’ll figure something out.” I end the call, lean back against the wall, and close my eyes.
I would call Fox, but he’s in Scotland.
Or maybe Jason. But I haven’t seen him since my parents’ masquerade ball last Halloween, and we’re the sort of friends that usually only call each other for one thing, anyway.
And… That’s it. I have no one else.
My eyes pop open when I realize this, and I notice that Miles is still here.
“Well, Jenny” he says, dipping his chin and tipping an imaginary hat. “I’d say it’s been a pleasure but… It hasn’t.”
As he saunters away, I get an idea.
“Wait!”
Miles pauses, takes a breath, and half turns. “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to regret not walking through those doors and leaving you here?”
I don’t even bother with putting on an act. This guy can sense my bullshit. Can probably smell it a mile away. For some reason, he doesn’t just see through me. He sees into me. Knows my nastiness and my spite and my meanness. Sees past my perfectly honed exterior to my darker parts. The tainted, ruined person that I am.
But he, on the other hand, is a good person. Annoying, yes. But largely good.
And maybe I can take advantage of that.
“So, Casanova,” I say, pushing away from the wall. “How’s the date going?”
Miles shoves his hands in his pockets. He hesitates, and for a second I’m sure he’s going to ignore me and walk back into the bar. But then he releases a pent-up breath. “It’s more a group thing, really.”
“Betsy made it sound like more.”
“Yeah, well Betsy wants it to be more. More than what it is.” He shifts his weight. “At least for now.” He says this last part softly, like he’s speaking only to himself.
“So, you’re not technically on a date?”
“No, not technically.” He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and he doesn’t even bother looking at me when he asks, “What do you want?”
Short and to the point. Fine. That’s how this relationship is going to work. Because I guess now we have a relationship.
We do not have a relationship.
“So, look.” I take a deep breath and rush on. “I need a ride.”
Miles laughs. Turns to face me. He shakes his head, his expression incredulous. “Man. You really have no shame, do you?”
I shrug. “Apparently not. At least lately, anyway.”
He arches a brow. “What? Did you break your car again?”
“Wow. A mechanic and a comedian? Aren’t you multi-talented?”
“Sweetheart, you have no idea.”
There’s an edge to his voice, a husky undertone that gives me chills. And not the repulsive kind that Trevor gave me earlier. I shake them off because A, I have bigger things to deal with – like a sick kid and parents who could potentially disown me if they learn I left their beloved grandchild to suffer through the flu in the babysitter’s house all night.
And B, it’s Miles. Meaning I’d rather sleep with Boring Braden than get wet over the smartass standing in front of me.
I glance at the clock on my phone and notice Mary Jo texted her address over five minutes ago. Time is ticking away, and an image of an hour glass pops into my mind; the sand slipping smooth and far too fast through the center.
And once again, my future lies in the hands of Miles fucking Wright.
I don’t try to induce tears or feed him some sob story. He wouldn’t buy my act, and then I’d be screwed. Instead, I tell him the only thing he will buy.
The truth.
“What kind of car is this, anyway?”
Streetlights flash across the interior, bright lights that throw shadows over Miles’s face and make him look older than he really is. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road when he answers. In fact, he doesn’t look at me much, period. At least, not in the way most guys do.
But, of course, there’s a reason for that.
“It’s a Dodge Charger. ’68.”
I nod. And once again we lapse into silence. Aside from the occasional “turn here” when I relay the Google Map directions to Mary Jo’s, we haven’t said much since we left the bar.
He doesn’t seem thrilled to be here. Not that I care. I could give a shit about his feelings. I just need to get Emilia back home, tuck her into bed, and look like the doting mother that I most certainly am… not.
The radio hums softly in the background, a stark contrast to the obnoxious cacophony he had playing in his shop earlier today. Still mullet rock, but quiet mullet rock. This I can handle.
I send a quick text to Mary Jo, letting her know we’re almost there.
“So, how old’s your daughter?
“Hmmm? Oh. Five. She’ll be six in October.”
I glance at Miles out of the corner of my eye and see him nod. The fact that he’s doing this – left his group of friends, not to mention his date – still boggles my mind. What are his motives? I mean, he has to have them, right? Everyone does. People don’t just give away something – their time – for nothing. I sure as hell don’t. And not many people I’ve met do, either. Except for my family, that is – my parents and Fox. Even my grandfather, when he was alive. All their goodness makes my rottenness look extra bad.
Black sheep of the family with a black heart. That’s me.
“Hopefully George wasn’t too pissed you had to take off.” I say this because I’m nosy. And because, when we left, he said good-bye to his friends and didn’t even introduce me. Of the group of eight, there were five guys and I couldn’t help but try to figure out which one was Miles’s love interest. For some reason, I’m curious about his type. He didn’t linger with any of them long; in fact, the only person he hugged goodbye was a curvy blonde with a perky nose, big tits, and legs that went on for days. Unlike Victoria, this blonde was a natural beauty – simple makeup, casual t-shirt and shorts. Gorgeous without trying. I hated her on the spot.
“George…” He sighs. “George pretty much has a heart of gold.”
“I guess it helped that you were leaving with a woman.” I glance down at my phone, realizing we’re nearing the turn to Mary Jo’s street.
Miles slants his eyes my way, his gaze questioning. “Why would that –”
“Turn, turn!” I throw my arm up, pointing left.
Miles swears and cranks the wheel, the tires squealing as he turns us onto Dearborn Lane.
It’s a neighborhood full of older homes – little square yards and big, overgrown trees with long limbs that drip over the road. As I peer up at the houses, looking for the correct address, I can only hope this chick had the good sense to turn on her porchlight. All the trees are blocking out the light of the moon, leaving the numbers on the houses in shadow. “There,” I say, spotting the one I’m looking for. “On the right.”
We pull to a stop in front of a large duplex. Ivy hugs the brick exterior, and a long sidewalk lined with thick bushes leads to the two front doors. The one on the left is Mary Jo’s, and she does, in fact, have the porchlight on.
I sit in the car for moment, staring up the walk. Like anything that has to do with my daughter, it takes a while for me to get in the groove.
Miles drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “You going in, or are you waiting for Christmas?”
When I don’t answer, he rolls his eyes and gets out. “Where are you go –” He slams the door in my face, and I growl. Flinging mine open, I stomp around to where he’s disappeared behind the Charger. He’s rooting around in the trunk, the muscles under his shirt flexing with the movement.
“What are you doing?”
He str
aightens, a black and red checkered blanket in his hands, and looks at me funny. “I’m making a bed in the backseat.”
“Oh.” I prop my hands on my hips. Look up at the duplex. Sigh. “Fine. Okay. I’ll be right out.”
Mary Jo is waiting by the door, and when I enter I see Emilia curled up on the couch, wrapped in blankets and looking pale.
“Poor thing,” Mary Jo says, her eyes big and green and sad. Her curly red hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her University of Iowa t-shirt hangs boxy and unbecoming on her curvy frame. Her sweat shorts are also Hawkeye flavored, and her white tube socks are pulled halfway up her calves. She has to be around twenty, although she exudes an innocence I lost somewhere around fourteen. I remember my mom saying something about her having to leave college, and only briefly wonder what her story is. I eye her as she casts a worried gaze at Emilia, her black hipster glasses sliding halfway down her nose as she frowns. “I’ve been giving her small sips of water and taking her temperature, like, every ten minutes. So far, no fever. But I figured you’d know more about what she needs.” She shrugs. “I just Googled that stuff.”
I nod. She did better than I would have. I’m about to go home and google the shit out of Google.
“Momma?” Emilia’s voice is faint, her little arms wrapped around an old stuffed dog my brother gave her when she was two. Mallory or Melonie or… Molly, that’s it.
I smile. I will it to reach my eyes, reflect in my voice.
But it doesn’t.
“Are you ready to go home?”
She sniffles. Nods. “Are we going to see Grandma?” she asks, sliding out of her blankets and off the couch. She clutches her dog to her chest and shivers. Mary Jo is immediately at her side, wrapping one of the blankets back around her shoulders.
Shit. That’s probably something I should have done.
I heave her backpack over my shoulder and take her hand. It’s clammy, and for the first time since learning she was sick, I feel like freaking out. Fortunately, Emilia’s always been a pretty healthy child, only ever falling truly ill once when she was two. But back then, my mom was around – buzzing like a bee, offering to help. And since I was having issues of my own at the time, I let her. I let her feed Emilia, take her temperature, change her bedding, monitor her fluid intake, and kiss away the tears – and only half listened when she tried to show me how to do it all.
