by K. C. Crowne
I smiled at the idea. After what felt like a major personal life setback, a win with my career and a little money in my pocket was just what the doctor ordered. A wince formed on my face at the expression. Any mention of doctors reminded me of Dr. Douchbag himself.
“Oh!” Kenna said. “I can-not believe I forgot to mention this to you.”
“What is it?”
“Have you checked your email?”
I realized I’d gotten so wrapped up in the stupid bullshit with Gavin that I hadn’t even bothered to check my inbox. Yet another reason to not bother with having a love life – it was an unnecessary distraction from my career.
“No,” I said, opening my Safari window and clicking over to my business Gmail account. “What is—” I didn’t need to even finish the question. A few emails down in the inbox was a subject heading titled “Re: Second Chance Charity Bid Proposal.”
Second Chance was one of the biggest up-and-coming charities in the state and every state bordering. It was founded by a former Denver police commissioner who’d established the charity as a helping hand for children who’d been victims of trafficking, providing foster homes where they could recover from their trauma and return into society. I believed in their mission like crazy and wanted nothing more than to help an organization devoted to such an amazing, noble goal.
But so did every other event planner in Colorado. Bigger organizations than mine had been crawling all over one another to handle their next event, and to stand out from the pack, I’d offered my services at twenty-five percent off. I hadn’t heard back from them, so before the Vegas trip I’d sent them an email gently reminding their events coordinator how eager I was to have the chance to plan their next fundraiser.
There was nothing I wanted to do more than work for charities – specifically charities for children. It was a way to do the job I loved, and for a good cause.
“What does it say?” I asked, eagerly moving the mouse over to the subject heading.
“I didn’t look – I figured you should be the first to see the news, good or bad.”
Once the cursor was over the subject, I took a deep breath and clicked. And my heart sank as soon as I read the body.
“What does it say?” Kenna’s tone was one of barely contained excitement.
My smile fell. I cleared my throat and began reading. “’Dear Ms. Stone. Thank you for your interest in working with Second Chance Charities. Your organization is in consideration for upcoming events, and we will be sure to let you know if we have interest in your services. Thank you.”
“So, the answer is no answer at all.”
“It’s the same wait and see as before, but I guess this time it’s officially waiting and seeing.”
Kenna chuckled. “Well, it’s better than a rejection.”
“You’re right about that.” I sighed, the gravity of the day coupled with the anxiety I’d just dealt with over the last few minutes finally taking its toll. “Anyway, I should try to get some rest tonight. Let’s talk tomorrow and get the next week planned out.”
“Perfect. And don’t beat yourself up for what happened, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
We said our goodbyes and she left. My eyes drifted to the lake, the last bits of sunlight glimmering over the water.
“Wine. I need some wine.”
After putting some David Bowie on the stereo, I went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of halfway-decent cab from the wire wine rack over my fridge. My eyes stayed on the sunset past the balcony as I opened the bottle and poured a glass, the events of the weekend playing in fast-forward in my mind’s movie theater.
What the hell had I been thinking? Had I really been under the impression I’d be able to spend a weekend with Gavin Davenport in Vegas and not briefly fall back under his spell? I’d been too damn trusting. But at least I’d learned a valuable lesson – some people never change.
I lifted the glass of wine to my lips, but before I could take a sip, a banging boomed through my apartment. I froze in place, my eyes wide.
Someone was at the door, and they weren’t happy.
I left my wine glass on the counter and slowly made my way over to the door, grasping the aluminum bat I kept leaning against the door frame. Another knock sounded out, just as loud, just as insistent. I wrapped my other hand around the taped-up handle of the bat and carefully, silently, rose to peer through the peephole.
Gavin was standing on the other side of my door. Despite the intensity of his knocking, he was the picture of cool as he leaned against the wall, looking sexy as ever.
What the fuck is he doing at my apartment? I pushed that thought out of my head, knowing it didn’t matter. What did matter was what I did next.
I could pretend not to be here, I considered, my heart thudding in my chest. He’d leave eventually.
No good. If Gavin had come once, he’d come again. Not only that, music was playing. And on top of that, pretending I wasn’t home would be totally cowardly, a way to avoid whatever was happening. It was just Gavin. And as much as I’d been serious about not wanting to see him again, it’d been unrealistic to think I’d be able to send him a text and that’d be that. He’d always been stubborn, and his behavior now was no exception.
I sucked in a slow, deep breath through my nose in an effort to calm myself down. Then I unlocked the deadbolt and opened it. A wild rush of emotions flooded through me as our eyes met. I was apprehensive and excited and turned-on all at once.
Gavin crinkled his brow, glancing down at my bat. “Is that…a bat? What were you going to do, hit me in the head?”
I raised the bat slightly. “Maybe. If I had to. But I didn’t know it was you. Not that I wouldn’t clunk you over the head with this thing if you tried anything funny.”
“What the hell were you thinking earlier?” he asked, sweeping his hand in the vague direction of the city, the bat forgotten. “You left without saying a damn word!”
“I said plenty of damn words.” I stood up straight. “I told you I was leaving on another flight.”
“But you didn’t stick around to tell me anything about it. I had no idea if you were being serious or not. Fuck, Gia, do you have any idea how worried I was?”
My temper cooled at the knowledge that his banging on the door was out of worry that something had happened to me, not out of anger for slighting him. However, his concern didn’t change facts.
“Not my fault you didn’t take what I said seriously. But here I am, and I’m fine. And more than that, I’m not obligated to answer to you. Now, if you don’t mind…”
I began to shut the door. But with surprising speed, Gavin’s hand shot out and he grabbed it, holding it open. I pushed, but he was far too strong.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
“That was shitty of you, Gia. You just up and left. What the hell kind of way is that to treat someone?”
He was angry, but so was I. And him holding the door open and preventing me from shutting him out, braced my anger with self-righteousness. All I wanted was to lay into him.
“You’re one to talk, asshole!” I said, rage edging my words. “I know you’ve got a case of selective memory, but you’re the one who left me without a word before, and you’re the one who ripped out my heart and stomped on it by marrying that psycho bully Mariah. And now you’ve got the fucking audacity to come here and chew me out because, what – I didn’t leave you a card or some shit when I left Vegas?”
The anger flowed through me, and I was fine with letting it rage. The shock on Gavin’s face made it clear he hadn’t been expecting this.
“You know what? I thought, honestly thought, there was a chance we could be friends. How stupid was I, huh? How freaking naive I was to think you might’ve changed. But I’m not about to make the same mistake again . You fucked me over, and now we’re done for good. It might take some time to get it through your thick, stubborn head, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”
He stood on my doorstep, speechless, his mouth a flat line and his eyebrows slanted down over his sparkling eyes. And I wasn’t about to lay off. I dropped the bat, then put my hands on his chest and gave him a hard shove. He stumbled backward.
“Get the hell out of here! I never want to see you again!”
If Gavin had something he wanted to get out, some immature attempt at a final word, he didn’t have a chance to before I slammed the door in his face.
As soon as I did, it was like someone had pressed a button in my brain. Tears poured from my eyes, stupid, wracking sobs sucking into my lungs as I stumbled over to the couch and plopped down onto it.
I wasn’t heartbroken – far from it. The reason for my tears was anger at myself, frustration that I’d let him back into my life only to make a mess of it all once more.
Never again. Gavin and I were done.
This time for keeps.
Gavin
It took all the restraint I had not to bang on that door again. My hands were shaking with rage, my jaw clenched tight enough to break molar. I wasn’t some Tinder date she’d hooked up with one night and thought better of the next morning. No – she and I were something special; we had a history.
I stood on her doorstep for a time, so paralyzed by frustration that I didn’t know what to do next. I wasn’t used to feeling like that, not having the answer.
I wanted to tell her how wrong she was, how un-fucking-fair it was of her to just cut me out without giving me a chance to say my piece. But what did I have to say? What would I tell her to make things right? Had they ever been right? Maybe I’d been totally out of line thinking she and I could have something casual.
I heard a soft whimpering through the door. I was confused at first, as if I might’ve been hearing things. But then I leaned against the steel door, placing my ear on the cool surface. Gia was crying.
My emotions flipped in an instant. I went from being angry to protective, wanting to kick down the door not to chew her out, but to support her, to be there for her. After all, her tears were my doing.
Then the frustration returned, along with the will to finally do something. Without another word, without another fist against the door, I turned and left. By the time I slid into the driver’s seat of my BMW, I was good and steamed. Hell, I was indignant.
I sat with my hands on the wheel, arguing with myself. We’d fucked because we’d wanted to fuck. She’d been just as eager to screw as I’d been. And she’d left, firing off a text telling me to never talk to her again, not giving me the chance to explain myself.
Obviously she’d never gotten over, and probably never would get over what happened when we were in high school. She didn’t know the whole story because I’d never told her, but the question was: Did I even want to explain myself to her?
There was a hell of a lot more going on than just the events of the last weekend. She’d brought up Mariah, dredged up that ghost of the past, and thrown her in my face.
But there was a reason for doing what I’d done. It wasn’t as simple as me just being tired of Gia and wanting someone new. And it sure as shit wasn’t as simple as me falling in love with Mariah.
By the time I’d finished my internal argument, the sun had gone down. But I wasn’t done tossing the issue over in my mind. I gunned the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, eager to get away from Gia.
This is good, I thought as I drove. I don’t need someone like her in my life anyway. She’s too complicated and too damn close to my past. What the hell had I even been thinking? Had I really convinced myself that I’d be able to screw her again without it being a total mess?
I glowered as I drove, frustrated with the whole damn situation. I remembered the line I’d told myself, that I only wanted to get her into bed to have a little fun with someone I knew I was sexually compatible with, someone who I was crazy-attracted to. But had that really been the case? Or were there other motivations behind what I’d done? Maybe motivations that had to do with feelings of my own?
I pushed all that out of my head as quickly as I could.
No – it was a simple matter of Gia letting her emotions get the best of her. She’d turned what should’ve been a fun weekend in Vegas capped off with some throwback sex into a total mess. God, the way she’d held that bat in her hand when she saw it was me…what, did she really think she’d need to thwap me over the head with that thing?
Maybe if she knew the whole story…
Nope, I decided. That was my business. I felt bad that I’d hurt her, that I’d been forced into a situation where I had to hurt her, but I didn’t want to dredge all that up for what I’d thought would be a fling. It was as a bummer. She and I had history together, and I’d envisioned this scenario where we’d be able to come back into one another’s lives, hook up once or twice, and be friends. We’d been through major shit together, and people like her were few and far between.
But maybe it was for the best that someone from that far in my past was no longer in my life. I knew everything about her, and she knew everything about me. For example, our fathers. I knew her situation with her dad, what kind of person he was, and why he was in prison. And she knew all about the same subject with me. She knew my history with my old man and how that had shaped my childhood.
The subject stuck in my mind as I drove, and I found myself wanting to keep driving, to toss it all over in my mind some more.
My father. Bringing him to mind was a trigger. Memories flooded back as I thought of him, along with emotions ranging from anger to pity to regret.
My father.
I was ten years old, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, a Super Nintendo controller in my hands and my head craned up at the late-model TV in our living room. Mario was on the screen, and I specifically remembered hitting “jump” and landing on one of those mushrooms that made your guy be able to shoot fireballs.
Mom was in the kitchen, which was visible from where I sat in the living room of our small, ranch-style home. A glass of wine was on the table, and she rested her head in her hand, her bright blonde hair draped over her fingers and a faraway look on her face.
I knew that look. It was the look she always got when Dad hadn’t come home yet from work and hadn’t called to let her know when he’d return. And I knew what it meant when this happened. It meant Dad had gone from his job at the moving company straight to the bar with his friends. He’d show up at random times in the evening, always drunk.
Dinner – one of those pre-made oven lasagnas – was on the stove. A plate of it was on the floor next to me with a few bites taken out. Mom had long given up the idea of us all eating dinner together as a family. But she always made me something, premade or not.
Bright lights cut through the house, filling the place with harsh, white light. The grumble of an engine followed, and I recognized it all as the sign of Dad coming back. My gut tensed, and I focused all the attention I had on the game. Not because I was super into it or anything, but because Dad coming home late meant Dad was coming home drunk. And the further away from that you were, the better.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mom’s body tense in the way she always did when Dad came home. Her wine had barely been touched, and I understood what little she did drink wasn’t out of fun but to deal with Dad when he was trashed.
The headlights cut out; the engine stopped. Then a door opened and closed, followed by the thump of heavy boots on the sidewalk leading to the house.
“Gavy,” Mom called, clearing her throat and speaking up. “Take your food and go to your room.”
“But Mom, I’m almost done with the level.” It had been an excuse for why I wanted to stay in the living room. I’d seen enough of Dad drunk to know what he did to Mom when he was that way, and the older I’d gotten the less I was content to simply wait in my room for it to be over.
“Go, Gavin.”
When she used my full first name, I knew it was serious business. I wasn’t hungry in the least, but I pick
ed up my little plate of congealed lasagna and got up. I didn’t get a chance to take a single step before the door opened.
I turned, and there he was.
A boy’s father always had a way of seeming larger-than-life. But my pops, six-foot-six and broad-shouldered, was even bigger than that. He wore rugged work boots, faded jeans, and a flannel shirt always rolled up around his big, powerful arms.
It was strange to me as a kid. He looked like a man should look –according to what my barely developed brain thought a man should look. But when it came to his behavior…that was a different story all together.
He tossed the keys into the dish – a green, ceramic bowl that looked like lettuce leaves – and stumbled into the house. I’d never had so much of a sip of booze, but I was still able to recognize the acrid stench that followed him like a cloud as whiskey.
“Dinner,” he said. It was one word, but he still managed to slur almost beyond recognition as he kicked off his boots. He stepped past me, sloppily reaching over and rubbing my hair hard enough to feel like he was about to pull my scalp off.
“Ow!” I griped, pulling my head away.
Dad shot me a narrow-eyed look. “Quit being a pansy.” He dropped into the dining room chair across from Mom.
She regarded him with a worried expression; she had to be careful with whatever word came out of her mouth. Both Mom and I knew that when dad was this drunk it didn’t take much to set him off.
“Where’s dinner?” He reached over to Mom’s glass of wine, scooping it up and bringing it to his lips. Dad drained the entire glass with the ease of taking a quick sip of water.
“Dinner’s on the stove,” Mom answered, her tone even.
I said nothing, watching the two of them talk.
“Then bring it to me.”
I hated this. I hated it so damn much. If I, a kid, knew what was coming, Mom sure as hell did to. But she played along anyway, as if this time she could make the moves that would allow her to escape Dad’s wrath. She never did.