by JB Salsbury
“Oh, so… okay. Cool.” Ugh, why does my stomach hurt?
He checks his phone then heads out the door, leaving me alone. All alone with a four-year-old and a mega-millionaire rock star.
Rather than dwell and give myself an ulcer, I go about the day as though it’s any other day. “Hey, Elliot? When this is over, how about we do some coloring?”
She doesn’t peel her eyes from the screen.
“Okay, glad you’re on board.”
Until her episode is over, I’ll tidy up the living room and pick out Elliot’s clothes for the day. I throw together her lunch—cheese sandwich, sliced apples, a cookie, and milk. Maybe I’ll get her bathed and dressed before we color, in case we lose track of time.
I head to the bathroom at the end of the hallway and freeze when I hear a moan from the other side of the master bedroom door. The sound stops and I wonder if I imagined it. I ignore my overactive brain and plug and fill the bath. When the water level is high enough, I shut it off and go to grab Elliot. My feet freeze again when I hear another pained groan coming from the bedroom.
I close my eyes and tell myself he isn’t my problem. Jesse Lee is Pete RN’s problem. But what if he’s hurt? I chew the inside of my mouth, staring down the hallway, then back at the bath, then settle on the door.
A long groan of agony sounds again.
Oh no, he’s really suffering.
My hand shakes as I grip the doorknob and I crack open the door. The first thing I notice is the smell of disinfectant, which—even though Pete assured me he’s not contagious—brings me comfort when I stick my head inside the sick room.
I’ve never seen Pastor Langley’s bedroom before. The door has always been closed when I’m here and I’d never snoop. Jesus is always watching.
Even now, I don’t linger on the room but force my gaze to the source of the sound.
There, under nothing but a white sheet, is a tattooed, naked torso. Attached to that torso is a head topped with a full mess of brownish-red hair. Oh em freakin’ gee.
There in the bed is Jesse Lee.
He’s on his back, his head propped up on pillows, his chin pointing toward the ceiling and showcasing the most perfect male jawline I’ve ever seen—square, strong, and hard. I would say almost too hard-looking if it weren’t for his pouty lips and long eyelashes. He licks his lips, and his white teeth emerge to sink into his thick lower lip.
At the sign of his pain, I’m jerked from my inspection and jump into action—only to stop abruptly when I notice his right arm shoved beneath the sheet. And it’s moving in quick, jerking strokes.
I gasp and throw my hand over my mouth.
He moans and lifts one knee. The sheet slides off and down his lean thigh that’s decorated in more ink. I stumble backward and whirl around only to slam into the doorframe. I fumble out the door and hurl it closed.
My breath comes in quick bursts, and my face is so hot it burns. A deep, gravelly chuckle followed by a soft sigh sends me pinwheeling down the hallway to Elliot.
Omg, omg, omg! He wasn’t in pain! He wasn’t in any pain. He was… he was… I can’t believe I witnessed Jesse Lee pleasuring himself!
“Okay, it’s okay.” I try to calm myself as I scoop Elliot off the floor without bothering to turn off the TV. “Bath time!”
I race past the bedroom door and lock us in the bathroom. We’ll be safe here until Pete gets back.
Jesse
That was fantastic.
If I had the strength to get up, I’d go kiss that woman on the mouth for the gift she just gave me.
I had been getting a bit nervous about my ability to get myself off. Didn’t help that Benji’s wife was smiling at me from all six hundred photos.
Then there’s that motherfucking chair. I’d had the nurse cover it completely with a blanket, but that shit haunts me from behind the crocheted throw.
I didn’t think I’d even get close to coming, but then the mystery woman poked her head in. I knew it wasn’t the good ol’ man nurse because he would’ve kept his cool and left me to my shit. My brother would’ve launched into a lecture on why jacking off is a sin.
She didn’t do either.
I heard her sharp intake of breath. I knew for a few short seconds she was watching me, and I imagined she enjoyed what she saw.
None of the images pulled up from my memories of debauchery and triple-x-rated sex-a-thons did a thing for me, but that innocent little gasp sent me reeling. I saw stars, lost all feeling in my arms and legs, my throat went dry, and if I weren’t already lying down, I’d have fallen on my ass.
I didn’t even see her face, just a flash of a simple brown ponytail as she raced out the door. For all I know, she could be a beauty queen or a troll. Doesn’t matter to me—I’d kiss the crap out of her for what she’d done.
I clean up with the cheap top sheet and toss it onto the floor.
“Junk still work? Check.” I lie naked under the ceiling fan and soak in the first solid period of time that I actually feel… good.
Now that all the drugs and booze are exorcised from my system, I can work on my plan to get out of here.
I roll to my side then push up slowly to sit at the edge of the bed. Without any blood in my head, I brace myself on my knees to stay upright. My skull throbs with the new vertical position, and my body feels as if I went two rounds with Tyson. I lie back down and must doze off because when I wake up, I find the man-nurse in the chair, reading a magazine.
“So?” My voice sounds raw from not being used. “What’s the word?”
He closes the magazine and stands. “Nothing, yet.” He gathers the stack of gossip magazines and pack of cigarettes I sent him to buy and places them on the bedside table. “But there’re four pages of celebrity photos before and after they got boob jobs.”
I groan and push up to sit.
“Looks like you’re still flying under the radar.” He peeks at the top sheet still balled up on the floor. “New sheets?”
I grab the magazines and skim the headlines for my name, but it seems the nurse is right. “How long have I been here?”
He’s gathering the sheet off the floor and stuffing it into a hamper. “One week today.”
“Huh.” And not a single fucking news outlet noticed I’m missing.
“You’ve been weaned off the meds—would you mind sitting over there so I can strip the bed?”
He offers me a hand, but I ignore it and slowly push myself out of bed. He’s crazy if he thinks I’m going anywhere near that chair. I may be weak as fuck, but I’ll risk falling and cracking my head rather than sit on the throne of nightmares. I stumble to the far side of the room. He tosses me a pair of sweatpants, and I appreciate that he doesn’t stare at my naked ass and make things weird.
“Dave should be calling any minute to let us know what the next step in your recovery is.” He goes about gathering all the dirty bedding. “Are you hungry?”
“Who’s the girl?”
With his arms full, he looks at me. “What girl?”
I nod toward the door.
“Did she come in here?”
A slow smile spreads my lips at the memory of her innocent gasp and what it did to my body. “Yeah.”
“Oh.” He frowns, most likely putting together my nudity, the dirty sheets, and the girl, and coming to the most obvious conclusion. Wrong, but I won’t correct him. “Uh…” He crosses to the door, stares at it for a second, then turns back to me. “She didn’t mention it.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Fuck, does this guy need me to write it down?
“She’s no one. Just the nanny.”
I’ve only been out of detox hell for hours at the most and already my body is jonesing hard for a thrill. Drugs and booze are out of the question if I want to keep my band together so… “She still here?”
“Nah, man. She’s gone—oh, hold on.” He fishes his cell phone from his pocket. “It’s Dave.” He hands it to me then leaves the room with the hamper.
<
br /> “Eighty-three days to go,” I say when I answer the phone.
“Nice to see you’re in no hurry.”
“Dave. I’m sober. Don’t be a bitch.”
“Pete says you’re off the detox drugs.”
“I am. And now I get to sit on my ass, bored out of my mind, for eighty-three days when I could be recording and making you millions.”
“Here’s what happens next. You’ll have private counseling every day for the next thirty days—”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Down to twice a week for the following thirty days, then once a week for the last thirty.”
“This is bullshit!”
“You’ll also be meeting with an AA-slash-NA group daily.”
“You seriously expect me to be able to stroll into some AA group without security? Are you fucking insane?”
“I’m making arrangements so it’ll be safe, and everyone will sign NDAs.”
“Why are you doing this? I’m sober! That’s what you wanted, so why don’t we cut the crap and get back to work?”
He’s silent for a few beats too long.
“Dave!”
“Look, Jesse…” He sighs long and hard. “How much is your career worth to you? This is your only chance to hold on to everything you’ve worked so hard for.”
The monster inside burps, and it bubbles up my throat. “I’m a fucking rock god. I don’t need you or the band. I could walk out of this shithole house right now and be back on the Top 10 in one week!”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You’re unemployed. You have no band, no label, and if you fight this, every label from Los Angeles to New York will blackball you.”
“Not if they want to make money off me they won’t!”
“Do you have any idea how much money Arenfield Records lost because of you in the last year? Cancelled shows because you had to be shipped off to rehab, all the studio hours they booked and paid for but you never fucking showed up? Not to mention the last album tanked!”
The hand gripping the phone shakes, and I resist the urge to throw the device into the closest wall.
“This is your only option. Take it or leave it, but know that if you leave, it’s over. Done.”
I rub my eyes and groan. How the hell did I lose control over my life?
Bethany
“Pancakes and a side of bacon.” I set down the plates on the table of three men who look as though they’re pre-gaming before hitting a bar. “Can I get you anything else?”
When they assure me they’re good, I check on my other tables. Friday nights at Pies and Pancakes is a lot busier than one would think. We don’t serve alcohol, but we serve the one thing everyone who’s been out drinking seems to crave.
Loads of carbohydrates.
“Excuse me?” A man in jeans and a T-shirt is dipping his napkin in his water glass. “Can I get more syrup? I spilled on myself.” He brings the wet napkin to his groin area and rubs vigorously.
The quick visual takes me right back to this morning, walking in on Jesse. I spin away with an animated, “Sure thing!” and scurry off to the kitchen.
With the sound of sizzling breakfast meat on the griddle and the scent of sweet dough in the air, I try to forget what I saw Jesse Lee doing in his brother’s bed. Funny, but trying to forget the visual only has me thinking about it more. Why is it we can’t unsee the things we want to unsee? Why don’t we have some kind of delete button to completely strike the image from our memory? I have a list of things I’d like to erase from my memory bank.
I fill up another small pitcher of syrup, then I deliver it to the guy who—thank goodness—has stopped cleaning himself.
But the damage is done as I replay Jesse’s tattooed arm tucked beneath the bed sheet, his straining muscles, his chin tipped back, over and over on a loop—“No!”
The man looks at me, clearly confused.
“No, uh… no problem.”
I need to get this off my chest. If I could tell Ashleigh about what I saw, she’d make me feel better—no one can normalize sexual stuff like she can—but that damn NDA means I have to process and get over this on my own. Alone.
Moving on. Think of something else. Stay busy and eventually I’ll forget that I saw Jesse Lee having sex with himself. Sure. Totally something a female would forget.
I grab the box of sugar packets from storage and fill sugar ramekins in an attempt to forget, or at the very least ignore, my memories.
“Bethany, you have a new table,” Mindy the hostess calls to me as she runs toward the employee bathroom. “Keep an eye on the front for me? I have to pee.”
I put down the box of sugars and grab my pad and pen to take the order of the couple sitting in my section. My feet refuse to move when I see who the couple is.
Wyatt and Suzette.
Okay, be calm. Breathe.
I put on my most comfortable body language and force myself to their table. “Good evening, welcome to—oh wow, Wyatt? Is that you?”
I mentally cringe. Is that you? We dated for almost a year, as if I’d forget what he looks like? Smart, Bethany.
“Uh… yeah.” He seems surprised to see me. “Hey, Beth.”
I never liked being called Beth, but somehow Wyatt makes the name sound like royalty. “You’re back from Hawaii.”
He frowns. “How did you know I was in Hawaii?”
My mouth drops open a little as I try to come up with a non-stalkery-sounding excuse. I shrug casually. “You posted on IG, it passed by in my feed.” No biggie. Not stalking.
“Oh, right.” Uncomfortable silence stretches between us. “I didn’t know you’d be working tonight.”
“I work every other Friday and Saturday, rotating, that way I get one weekend night off a week.” I pinch my lips closed to keep from rambling on about things he probably doesn’t care about.
“Yeah, I, uh… I didn’t see your car outside.”
“Ah, yeah, well, my car? It’s uh… Oh! Our pie of the week is pecan caramel, your favorite.” I rush out my words, hoping to take the focus off my car and what happened to it. Without my permission, my face and neck grow hot with embarrassment.
“No pie tonight.” His arm is thrown over Suzette’s shoulder. My gaze sticks on his thumb softly caressing the bare skin at her bicep.
“You remember Suzette,” he says.
“Yes, hi.” She’s beautiful—long black hair, exotic almond-shaped eyes, puffy lips in a constant pout, and I know from stalking her social media she has the body of a swimsuit model. Maybe she is a swimsuit model, although I think she would’ve included that in her bio. “It’s good to see you again.”
She grins. It’s short and strained and super uncomfortable. But come on, we’re all adults here. This doesn’t need to be awkward.
“Can I get you something to drink to start?”
“Sure, we’ll have two waters and we’ll share a vanilla shake.” Wyatt smiles at Suzette, which makes her cheeks turn pink.
I scribble on my notepad. Vanilla. Weird, Wyatt always liked chocolate shakes. “Great. I’ll get that right out.”
I’m grateful when I’m out of sight and can wipe the stupid grin off my face. Why does fake smiling hurt my cheeks and real smiling doesn’t? Whatever.
I whip up the shake fast enough, adding an extra scoop of ice cream because I know Wyatt loves his sweets. Two straws, two spoons, I slide the tray onto my palm and move their way but stumble in my sensible black Reeboks when I see their faces smashed together.
The blood runs out of my head. My palms sweat. The tray wobbles, but I grip it in time to save the drinks. My heart sinks into my stomach as Wyatt’s hand cups Suzette’s jaw, his own jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. With a softball-sized lump in my throat, I push forward and clear my throat once I’m at their booth.
“Your vanilla shake.” I set it down, regretting that extra scoop and the extra cherries on top. I place the waters on the table, hoping they don’t see how badly I’m s
haking. “Is there anything else I can get you?” I stand there, stiff and uneasy.
Suzette’s chocolate-brown eyes flash to mine. “Nope.”
“We’re good. Thanks, Beth.” The way he says my name sounds like an apology, which is sweet but he doesn’t owe me that. Unless… he still has feelings for me.
The thought stirs hope in my chest and helps me to smile, genuinely smile, before turning around and leaving them to their dessert.
The night Wyatt broke up with me, he said I was the kind of woman a man settles down with. Suzette with her mini-skirts and big boobs, Wyatt used to refer to her type as arm candy. There’s no way what they have is serious. He’ll tire of her eventually, and I’ll make sure I’m still in his life and available for when he does.
“Why do you like him?” Ashleigh is sitting cross-legged on my bed with a canister of Pringles in her lap and her hand elbow-deep inside it. “He has to know you seeing him with Suzette is going to hurt, so why would he do it unless he’s a heartless cock-sucking bastard?”
I pick at my pink nail polish and wonder if Suzette ever wears pink. My guess is she’s more of a black, blue, and red nail-color-wearer. “He said he didn’t know I’d be there.”
Her expression is pure pity. “Bethany. There are a million different places he could’ve gone. Hell, when he realized you were working, he could’ve left—”
“That would’ve been weird. I can handle seeing him with someone else.” I don’t feel the conviction behind my words, but eventually I will. Right?
She holds up her hands and shrugs. “Whatever you say.”
I grab a short stack of Pringles while I try to convince myself that I meant what I said. I may not have the whole sexy exotic thing going on like Suzette does, but I have qualities. I work hard, live in a decent two-bedroom apartment, and manage to pay half of everything with my income. I volunteer at the church and I’m a nanny, for crying out loud. I may not be a bikini model, but I can rock a tankini. Oh my gosh… I’m a sixty-year-old woman trapped in a twenty-four-year-old’s body.
I groan and drop back on the bed, handing Ashleigh my stack of chips. “Can we please talk about something else?”