by Kate, Jiffy
“Funny you should ask, because I was hoping you could turn my good time into an even better one, if you know what I mean.” Moving to my side, her hand still on my arm, she winks and it takes all my power not to roll my eyes.
Brandy and I sort of have a past and it’s not one I’m proud of. I haven’t had a romantic relationship in many years and I’m not interested in having one, but sometimes my hand isn’t enough and my needs take over my brain. Brandy just happened to be here at the bar the first time I felt the need to get laid and well, she’s been here the other times as well.
It’s not that she wants more from me than I’m willing to give, but she does tend to get clingy when she drinks and I’m just not interested tonight.
“Not tonight.”
“But, Shaw, baby, you know I can make you feel good. Let’s go to your office so I can give you what you need.” She drops her hand from my arm to my thigh, but I stop it before it reaches my dick.
“I said no. Find someone else.” I stand up quickly, making Brandy teeter in her high heels, and walk away, heading to my office. Alone.
I’m almost to the door when I hear another female voice coming from around the corner. I take a tentative step forward and see Avery in the doorway of the storage room talking on her cell phone. Feeling stuck, because she’s blocking my way into the office and I don’t want to turn around and risk seeing Brandy again, I decide to stay where I am. Surely, she won’t be on the phone long and when she’s done, I can pretend I was simply walking to my office...which I was in the first place.
I might observe my employees, but I’m not a creeper.
“Brant,” I hear her say. “It’s over. We’re done and that’s final.”
She’s obviously speaking with the asshole who hit her and, although I want to respect her privacy, I’d also like to reach through her phone and fuck him up a little. No one should ever lay a hand on a woman like that. Ever.
But I’d come to the defense of any of my workers—male or female.
Avery is just my employee, nothing more.
I’m not sure why I have to keep reminding myself of that or justifying my thoughts. It’s infuriating and probably part of the reason I’m so rude to her. She’s only been around a few days and she’s already under my skin, even though I’d never admit that to anyone else.
“You lost the right to know or have a say about anything pertaining to me the second you hit me.” Her tone is firm and strong.
Good for her. I love, I mean, admire how she doesn’t back down. She didn’t back down to me and it’s obvious she’s not backing down to this Brant guy either. What a fucking douche. It’s obvious she doesn’t need my help, but I can’t help myself, so I keep listening.
“You want your car back?” she asks with a scornful huff as she paces a few steps. With her back still to me, she tightens her free fist and mimics hitting the wall. I’m glad she doesn’t really follow through because that would hurt. And then I’d be icing knuckles. I know all about fists meeting walls. “Well, I guess you’ll have to find me first. Call the police, I’ll happily give the car to them as soon as you send me the rest of my things from the apartment.”
Her words are brave but her body language is a mix of emotions. One second, she’s nearly punching walls, and now, she’s back to pacing and biting at her thumb nail. When she puts her back to the wall, using it for support, I can see her eyes closing tightly and she presses her fist to her forehead, like she’s summoning strength. That act alone makes me think her bravado is just that, and in reality, she’s afraid of this guy.
That thought puts my whole body on high alert, sending blood pumping forcefully through my veins.
He must be giving her an ear full because she’s silent as she stares at the wall in front of her.
I have a feeling this guy isn’t done, and if my intuition is right, which it usually is, he’ll come looking for her, but I’ll be ready if he shows up at my bar. I hope to God he shows up at my bar. It’ll be a decision he’ll greatly regret, that I can promise.
“Fuck you, Brant.”
And there’s my cue.
When she forcefully hits the end button on her phone, I pretend like I just turned the corner.
“Shit,” she gasps when she sees me. Her hand flies up to her chest and I try not to notice the way her tits move in time with her heavy breathing. I try, and I fail.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” I tell her, adopting the cool tone I’ve come to use with her. “Didn’t realize anyone was back here.” Lie. “You okay?”
She lets out a deep breath, seeming to calm down a bit before answering. “Yeah, I’m fine. I was, uh...talking to my ex.” She winces an apology, probably for talking on the phone while she should be working, but I’m not mad about that. “He was just pissing me off.” She mutters that last part more to herself than me and I watch as she lets out another breath, trying to gain her composure, I’m sure.
She’s not fine or okay, but she is resilient. Like looking in a mirror, I watch her fortify her walls—back straightens, chin lifts, shoulders square.
Her eyes and the way they’re looking at me right now, like she’s trying to figure me out, have my mouth going dry, so I clear my throat before speaking. “If he keeps bothering you or you need my help in any way, don’t hesitate to ask, got it?”
Avery’s big brown eyes go wide as she cocks her head at me, surprised by my statement. If I’m being honest, so am I. We stare at each other, and with each passing second, I’m feeling more and more exposed, which makes me extremely uncomfortable. And, yet, I can’t seem to break this connection we seem to have.
Finally, she nods her head and softly says, “Okay. Thanks, Shaw,” before stepping around me and walking back to the bar.
The second she’s out of my proximity, I breathe a little easier and think a little clearer. It’s a bizarre feeling I’m not used to, but as the effects of her subside, I feel rage start to bubble up within me. Five minutes alone with her in an empty hallway and I start feeling like I want to let my guard down. Well, fuck that and fuck her.
The walls are there for a reason and no one is going to bring them down, especially not Avery Cole.
Chapter 7
Avery
“I talked to him two days ago, Mama,” I groan into the phone, tired of having this same conversation with her regarding Brant and her incessant need for me to talk it out with him.
Part of me wants to tell her the truth so she’ll back off, but some weird part is holding back. I don’t know if I’m afraid she’ll take his side, even though that’s ludicrous. My Mama loves me and she’s always only wanted what’s best for me and obviously that’s not Brant. But she also loves Brant. So, maybe I’m subconsciously sparing her feelings by not outing Brant for the asshole he really is. I also really hate confrontation.
Sighing, I rub my eyes. “I need to get ready for work,” I tell her when she doesn’t say anything.
“What are you not telling me, Avery?” she finally asks.
What’s that they say about a mother’s intuition? Oh, right, it makes her a fortune teller and psychic all rolled into one. Sometimes, I feel like she really does have eyes in the back of her head...and around the world, for that matter. Maybe there’s a mom satellite you’re only privy to once you birth a child. It gives the Big Brother conspiracy a run for its money.
“It’s complicated, Mama.”
“I’m a smart woman, Avery. So, how about you tell me and I’ll see if I can keep up.”
When the snark comes out, I know she’s getting pissed. Honesty has always been our policy and she knows I’m withholding the truth, but just thinking about rehashing that night with my mama over the phone has my stomach in knots.
“Fine,” she finally says with a resolved sigh. “How’s everything else? You like your job? You eatin’ good?”
“Everything else is good. My job is good and I’m eating three balanced meals a day.” That’s bullshit and she knows it, but w
e both know it’s what she wants to hear, so I feed her the white lie and she eats it up, no pun intended.
With a laugh, she continues, “I love you, Avery. You know that?”
“I do, Mama, and I love you too.”
“Call me tomorrow.”
“I will. Tell Daddy I said hello and I love him too.”
“Will do.”
A few seconds later, the phone goes dead and I toss it onto the bed.
Looking up at the ceiling, I exhale loudly, my emotions feeling like they’re in a damn spin cycle.
I woke up this morning with a nervous stomach. Ever since my conversation with Brant, I’ve felt on edge, unsettled. But it has nothing to do with where I am. I love this place and this city. I also love the bar I work at, despite my surly boss. But I hate that I still feel like I’m in limbo. I want to feel settled, like I’m building a life here. Another week is all I have in this house and then I’ll have to find another room to rent, but I’d like to find something a little more permanent—a small apartment or some roommates. But so far, nothing affordable has come up within a reasonable distance from work.
And I’ll soon be without a car, because it’s not a matter of if but when Brant follows through on his threat from the other night. He’ll come here and track me down if for no other reason than to make my life hell and force me to face him. I’m sure, somewhere in his twisted mind, he thinks if I see him I’ll come crawling back to him. But he’s so fucking wrong.
Letting out a frustrated growl, I cover my face with the pillow and force my mind to think about something else, like a place to live. That’s something I can control.
I’ve been fortunate so far, finding a couple of rooms to rent within walking distance to the bar, which I’m grateful for. However, walking five blocks when it’s late at night in New Orleans isn’t my favorite thing in the world, but I’ve survived, so far.
What if Brant finds me walking the streets alone at night? What would happen then? Those thoughts bring me to my new contemplation: do I think the night he hit me is an isolated incident?
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
I don’t know.
Could he find me?
Yes. I mean, I’m still using the cell phone he pays for. With all of today’s high-tech apps, including a specific one I know he has access to that helps you track a cell phone and the person who uses it, it’s child’s play. My stomach drops at the thought and I chuckle at my melodramatic behavior.
Since when do I let fear guide my life? Never. That’s not me.
Although, last night on my way home from work, I did hear my Mama’s voice in my head. “Don’t talk to strangers, watch your surroundings, and never get into vans with no windows.”
I thought about asking one of the guys from the bar to walk me home, but I didn’t want any of them to think I’m weak or can’t take care of myself, especially Shaw. He still seems hell bent on proving me wrong at every turn. Knowing him, he’d probably use it against me and possibly as grounds for letting me go, deeming me a liability.
However, the other night, when I was in the hallway talking to Brant and he overheard my call, I swear something passed between us. The way he looked at me—glared, stared, whatever—it made me feel exposed, like he was examining my soul. When he offered to help me if I ever need it, I believed him. Maybe it’s his lack of small talk, but when Shaw speaks, I believe the words that come out of his mouth.
Pulling myself off the bed, I decide to get ready for work early and go over to Neutral Grounds for a coffee and something to eat. I need to clear my head and CeCe’s friendly face always cheers me up.
Making the walk to Jackson Square, I’m thankful for the adrenaline that starts pumping through my veins because it masks the underlying nerves. It doesn’t rid me of them completely though, because the reality of my situation is today is Saturday and I know if Brant is planning on showing up in New Orleans, it’ll be today or tonight. He’s too focused on the promotion he’s currently in the running for to take time off work, which was why he was still trying to convince me to come back to Houston. That would make his life easy. If I went back to Houston, accepted his weak apology, he’d be able to pretend nothing happened.
But not me. I could never go back to walking on eggshells, living a lie—Brant’s facade of a life. Maybe that’s what I was doing all along and Fight Night, as I’ve come to refer to it in my mind, was a wake-up call to get the hell out of there and get on with my life?
I’m typically a very forgiving person. I tend to see the good in people and overlook their flaws. Like Brant’s pride and self-centered attitude, I overlooked those things for years. I also never complained when he left his clothes by the bed, expecting me to pick up after him, along with so many other trivial things that mounted up to a big pain in my ass. I let all of that go, for the sake of love, or what I thought was love.
But the second I woke up on that floor and realized what transpired, it was over.
The switch had been flipped.
My love for him died on that floor.
Maybe it was hanging on by a thread all along.
When I think about him, the only emotions I feel are related to hurt and anger—disappointment, regret—but nothing resembling love or affection.
“Hey,” CeCe greets when I walk into the coffee shop.
“Hey.” I smile, thankful for the aroma that infiltrates my senses and her happy smile, distracting my busy mind. “You know you’re like my favorite person in this city, right?”
“I deliver the goods,” she says with a shrug. “Think of me as a legal crack dealer.”
We both laugh as she goes about making me a steaming cup of coffee. Now that I’m gainfully employed, I’m back to drinking an iced espresso with two sugars and room for milk.
“So, what’s new?” CeCe asks. Unlike Shaw, she’s always making small talk, but she also always comes off so genuine with her interest I can’t help telling her my life story.
“Ugh,” I groan, topping off my to-go cup with the perfect amount of milk, making it a delicious shade of brown. “Well, my ex called and he’s—”
She cuts me off by putting her hands up in the air. “Wait. This calls for cake.” Walking to the cold case, she pulls out a white porcelain plate with a slice of lemon pound cake on it and sets it in front of me. “It’s on the house. Really, you’re doing me a favor because I need to get rid of the lemon cake so I can put out a new one today.”
I smile and shake my head. “You’re kinda perfect, you know that?”
Fluttering her lashes, she folds her hands under her chin and grins. “I know. I’m a catch.”
“You are. So, why hasn’t someone scooped you up?”
She rolls her eyes as if to say as if. “What with all the talk of douchey ex-boyfriends,” she says with wide eyes and a sarcastic smile.
“Right,” I reply with a nod, taking a healthy pull from my straw and feeling its immediate effect as the liquid gold hits my taste buds. Between the coffee and bite of lemon pound cake, which is rocking my world, I’m instantly feeling more myself. “Well, let’s hope not all guys are like Brant Wilson.”
“Let us pray,” she jokes with a laugh, doing the sign of the cross. “So, what’d douche canoe want?” Douche canoe has been her name for Brant from the moment I confided in her about him a couple of weeks ago. It fits.
I sigh, setting my half-eaten cake back on the plate. “Well, he wants my car back, for starters.” I frown and exhale through my nose, trying not to let the nerves back in. “But it’s in his name, and in his defense, he did pay for it.”
“Well, that sucks,” CeCe says, wiping down the espresso machine while we talk.
I inwardly roll my eyes when I realize my thoughts turned to Shaw, again, and groan. I swear he just creeps into my thoughts without warning or permission. At least I haven’t had any more sex dreams. Actually, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, because it was really hot.
“Tell me about it,” I groan, forcing Shaw out of my brain. “And the really sucky part is that I’m pretty sure he’s going to show up here to get it.”
CeCe stills with her back to me. “Really? You think he’d come all the way to New Orleans? What’s that...” She pauses, turning around with a pensive look. “Like five hours, at least, right?”
“Yeah,” I reply, biting on my lip as I let the realness of the situation sink in. Brant. In New Orleans. In all honesty, it scares the shit out of me. As much as I try to not let it, it does. “But I’m not going back to Houston, and I don’t want to go home right now, so I guess it’s the only option. He said he was going to call the cops and file a police report, but I don’t see him passing up an opportunity to make the exchange face to face. Especially since he told me to come back to Houston and I told him to fuck off.”
“Good for you,” she says, giving me a solemn nod of solidarity. “I mean, I hate that you’re going to have to face him, but good for you for standing your ground.”
“I’ll just be glad when it’s all over.” I exhale loudly and take another drink of my coffee, trying to push down the rush of nausea. “It wouldn’t hurt my feelings if I never see him again...ever.” I can’t help but think there was a time when I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with Brant. I wanted to be Mrs. Brant Wilson. I even practiced writing my name, a million times—Avery Wilson. I thought it had a nice ring to it. It always made my stomach flip. Now, it just makes my stomach roll.
What if I had married him? I shiver at the thought.
“I don’t know, Avery. I just hate that you're by yourself. The thought of you being alone with him again.” CeCe voices my own worry. “Not to bring up bad memories or anything, but you looked like shit the first time you walked in here.”
“I’ll be fine.”
CeCe’s sad smile tells me she doesn’t believe that any more than I do. Squeezing my hand, she says nothing, just transferring as much strength through her touch as possible.
“It’ll be fine,” I whisper, trying to reassure her while lying to myself.