by Erin Noelle
“Wait,” she interrupts, clearly irritated as she snarls her upper lip. “How do you two know each other?”
I stare at Crew, waiting for him to answer the question, while my stomach lurches high into the back of my throat. His Adam’s apple bobs wildly as he swallows, holding my eyes with his own, both of us realizing the magnitude of this moment.
“Hudson’s my girl.”
Tonight fucking blows. I dodged one bullet with my honest, yet hesitant, answer to the question about who Hudson is to me, but based on the fiery look in Tasha’s eyes ever since, another battle is just getting started.
As if her usual boobs-in-my-face, seductively biting her lip act isn’t enough, she’s laying it on thick now—for Hudson’s benefit, I’m sure. She’s suddenly become the clumsiest damn cocktail waitress in the world. First, her pen magically rolls out of her fingers and over the bar, which means she needs to come search for it on the ground, on her hands and knees in front of me, of course. Then, she accidentally slips down at the register and asks me to help her up, rubbing her tits up the length of my body as she stands and teases that she may need an ass massage later.
It’s not like I can tell her no, or call her out in front of a crowd of customers and look like a complete dick. So I piss my girl off instead. ‘Cause, you know, that’s always fun.
Hudson isn’t helping matters either, with the daggers she keeps throwing my way. What the fuck? It’s not like I’m waving dollar bills at Tasha, encouraging her. I’m a bartender. I get drinks for waitresses. Yes, they’re half-dressed, and no, she didn’t know that, but still. I’m sure she thought she was being sweet by showing up unannounced, but between the heat from Tasha and the ice from Hudson, I just want them all to go away. Can’t they let me do my damn job in fucking peace?
And Tasha—she’s not the brightest crayon in the box, but she’s smart enough to know what her best assets are. I just wish she wasn’t trying to shove them down my throat tonight, and that she’d find someone else to set her sights on. I know I can’t be blatantly rude after what Rory told me about her influence around here, but I’m not sure how to get it through her oblivious head.
Lastly, I’m downright pissed off at that fucking asshat, Beckham, who’s hanging all over Hudson at their table, glancing over at me every chance he gets to make sure I’m looking. If I wasn’t working right now, I’d ask him with my fist which part of ‘Hudson is my girl’ he didn’t fucking comprehend. But, I really need this job, and although coldcocking a customer wasn’t one of Brody’s three rules, something tells me it would be frowned upon.
So, instead, I have to suck it all up, plaster a smile on my face, and make drinks for the next three hours, pretending everything is hunky-fucking-dory.
“Hey, man,” Rory nudges my elbow as I wait for the blender to mix a frozen margarita, “you okay? Can I help out with something?”
“Fuck no,” I grumble, rubbing my hand across the back of my neck. “My girl decided to show up and surprise me tonight, and it just so happens that her friend from school, who’s also here, is Tasha’s cousin. Everything is pretty fucking far from okay right about now.”
He’s quiet for a minute as he scans the bar, then cocks his head when he lands on Hudson’s table. “Which Hipster Barbie is yours?”
“She’s not a fucking Barbie, but the one with the long hair,” I retort as I pour the slushed mixture in a glass. “And the other one’s her sister.”
Snickering at my touchiness, he shakes his head. “My bad, man. Don’t get your panties in a wad. I was just teasing you. She’s fucking hot, and you could totally help a brother out with an introduction to her sister at some point, but you do realize Beck is macking all up on her, and Tasha is over there talking to them, right?”
I deliver the drink to the waiting customer, who I immediately label as a dumbass for ordering a frozen drink when there’s subzero temperatures outside, but I smile and wink at her all the same while collecting my tip.
“Yeah, I see it, but what am I supposed to do about it?” I steal a glance over at the group, cringing as I see Tasha engage Hudson in conversation. “And how do you know him?”
Rory shrugs his shoulder while getting out two shot glasses, rimming them each with salt and filling them with top-shelf tequila. “He’s a regular up here, though he hasn’t been around much lately. I’m not even sure he’s old enough to drink, but he and Tasha are really close, so Brody doesn’t say shit.” Handing me a lime wedge, he tips his head down at the freshly poured shots, the only motherfucker on my side tonight. “Drink up, buttercup. Tequila makes everything better...at least temporarily.”
Throwing back the first shot, and then the second, I welcome the potent, intoxicating liquid as it rolls down the back of my throat and warms my chest. I close my eyes momentarily and take several deep, fortifying breaths, in through my nose and out through my mouth, and when I reopen them, all I see is the back of Hudson’s head walking out the front door.
By the time I pull up in front of Hudson’s house, it’s after three in the morning and I’m fucking steaming mad. At least her car is parked in the driveway. She’s ignored my texts since she left without saying goodbye—left with her sister and Beckham, I might add. Tasha smartly stayed out of my way after their sudden exit—an exit that conveniently followed her talking to Hudson—and the only good thing that happened all night, other than the four hundred I pocketed, was Rory offering to do most of the clean-up, knowing I needed to get the hell out of that place before I lost my shit.
Storming up to the window I know is hers, I accidentally tap louder than I mean to, and hope I don’t wake up anyone else in the house. I realize it’s only a few hours from when they all have to be up to get ready for work and school, and though I doubt Doug and Mel would get upset with me for showing up at this hour, I would really rather not test my theory.
At first, there’s no activity behind the blinds, but after the third time I rap my knuckles—a little more impatient each time—on the window, a light flicks on in the room, and seconds later, she’s standing in front of me with only a pane of glass separating us. Her hair still hangs down over her shoulders like earlier, hiding her tits from me, but her pale blue shirt is short enough to give me a peek at the front of her white lace panties. The sight of her is almost enough to make me forget about everything that happened in the last several hours, to rip that thin piece of fabric from between her legs and bury myself deep in her heat, reminding her who the fuck she belongs to.
Almost.
“Let me in,” I mouth, my quiet tone demanding.
She shakes her head obstinately and rolls her eyes. “Go home, Crew.”
“Hudson, please,” I warn. “Don’t do this. We need to talk.”
Penetrating me with her icy stare, she stands firm. “So talk.”
“It’s freezing out here, and I need to explain things. It’s not whatever you’re thinking. Please give me five minutes.” I’m not sure how this turned so quickly from me showing up ticked off to begging for her to let me talk, but there’s no denying the hurt look painted across her beautiful face, and it kills me to know I’m the reason for it.
Eventually, her face softens and she drops her arms to unlatch the window. Pushing it open, she backs up so I can crawl inside her bedroom, crossing her arms over her chest as she adds to the distance between us. I shed my jacket and go straight to her side, not giving her a chance to protest. Scooping her up in my arms, I sit down on her bed and place her in my lap, my arms wrapping tightly around her center.
She shivers from my cold fingers, but I need to touch her too much right now to let her go. Her body is made to fit mine, and as I exhale, most of my anger leaves with it.
“Why did you leave?” I murmur into her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her perfume. “You didn’t say goodbye or anything. I just looked up and you were gone…with him.”
Shoving back away from me, her eyes grow wide. “With him? Are you kidding me? You realize that it’s be
cause of you I never went out with Beckham again, right? That on the single date I had with him—my very first date ever—all I could do was think about some cocky ass guy from Texas, who had the most intriguing green eyes I’ve ever seen and hair that begged me to bury my fingers in it. Right?
“I don’t like bars. I don’t even drink,” she continues, pushing farther away from me. “I went there for you, because I so stupidly thought you may be missing me like I’ve been missing you over the past few days, and that you might actually be happy to see me. Instead, I walk in to a bar where you not only work with a bunch of half-dressed hoochies—which you’ve conveniently failed to mention—but one who openly informed me that she’s your favorite! Seriously, Crew, what the fuck am I supposed to think?!”
“Hudson…” I begin.
“No, let me finish. You wanted to talk, so this is me talking,” she whispers harshly. “I don’t do boyfriends and dating and all that crap, because I don’t have time for petty bullshit like this, but there was something different when I met you, a connection I thought you felt too. And I know we haven’t been together very long, or whatever you call this,” she motions her hand back and forth between the two of us, “and I’m not asking you to profess your love to me, or to report in, or anything else ridiculous like that, but some common courtesy would be nice. If I worked someplace where a bunch of sexy ass guys milled around, flaunting their goods, I’d give you a fucking heads-up before you showed up and felt like an idiot!”
I lift my hand and gently press my finger against her lips, trying to calm her down. Her cheeks glow an angry pink as her pulse thumps frantically underneath the pale skin of her neck, and I’ve got to admit…my dick’s getting hard watching her get all worked up. I’ve never seen mad Hudson before, and she’s fucking hot.
“Hudson, listen to me,” I implore in a soft yet urgent tone, my hand sliding over to cup her jaw. “I never meant for you to feel like an idiot. I didn’t tell you about the girls at the bar, because they’re nothing to me. I don’t even give them a second thought. Especially not Tasha. She’s just one of those chicks who think they’re God’s gift, and if someone doesn’t show interest, she sees it as a challenge. I don’t show interest. I’m nice to her, because we work together, but that. Is. It.”
“So you don’t hang out with her and ‘all of the employees’ after work at her apartment?”
Impatiently dragging my fingers through my hair, I sigh. “No, I’ve never been to her apartment, I’ve never hung out with her or any of the other waitresses outside of work, and I’ve never done anything that would come even fucking close to being inappropriate behind your back. Look at me,” I command as I grab her waist and haul her ass back into my lap, tilting her face up to mine. “When I go to work, I’m a bartender. I smile and I make drinks. Innocent flirting is a part of it if I want to make money, both from the customers who tip me directly and the waitresses who give us a portion of their money for tip-share.
“But regardless of all that, it’s you who’s flipped my world upside down.” I lower my mouth to less than an inch away from hers. “You who I never stop thinking about.” Our lips touch. “You who fucking owns me. The first girl who has ever owned me.”
Words aren’t necessary after that as we quickly become a tangled mess of naked body parts, melding together in a desperate and feverish act of forgiveness and understanding. I’m hers. She’s mine. And stupid fucks like Tasha and Beckham aren’t taking that from us.
Three hours later, I leave Hudson’s house in a much better mood than when I arrived. After a couple rounds of make up sex, which made our first argument well worth every minute of it, she walks me out to my car on her way to her morning greenhouse duties. A small part of me feels a little guilty about keeping her up all night, knowing she has to work and then go to class while I get to go home and crash in my bed, but she promises me with one last kiss before I climb in my car that she’ll be fine and she’ll join me in my bed this afternoon.
Struggling to stay awake on the drive home, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, drumming out the beat to the latest Sunset Sons’ song, Medicine, blaring through the speakers. Finally, I pull up in front of the apartment and kill the engine, noticing first thing that my mom’s car isn’t here. Worried, I pull my phone out of my pocket to find a missed text from her a little over an hour ago, sent to both mine and Caleb’s phone.
Mom: Sorry! I fell asleep over at Luke’s watching a movie and just woke up. I’ll be home in the morning to shower and change for work. Love you guys.
I smile to myself as I hurry up to the front door, happy my mom seems to be thriving with making friends and adjusting to our new life here. Ever since my dad bailed on us, she’s done nothing but take care of us kids, and it’s about time for her to live her life too, especially with Caleb’s health improving so rapidly. And it’s not like I can really say anything about her spending the night with someone, seeing as how I basically just did the same thing. My mom’s a sharp lady and a good judge of character, so I trust she’ll be smart about who she gets involved with, even if it is her boss.
Quietly, I let myself in, not wanting to wake Caleb in the process. Removing my outer layer of clothing, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and toe down the hallway, stopping to check on him on my way to my bed.
The second I step foot into his room, I freeze at the sight of Caleb’s pale body on the ground next to his bed, his head engulfed in a never-ending pool of deep red blood, greeting me in the most devastating way possible. Time splinters, and I can only catch fragments. The plastic bottle falls from my hand, dropping to the floor, water mixing with blood. I struggle to breathe as a pungent metallic odor fills my nostrils and mouth. Choking back vomit, my knees buckle in pure disbelief. His eyes are open. His chest is still.
His chest is still.
His chest is still.
I crawl over to my little brother, suffocating with him, and pull him into my arms. He’s cold. Stiff. I pick him up awkwardly, holding and rocking him against my chest as his dead eyes stare up at me. Silently asking me where I was.
What was more important?
I don’t let go of him when Mom shows up. I can’t stop apologizing to him. The paramedics rip his body out of my arms, leaving me cold and numb.
And time stops. Forever.
I don’t let go of him when Mom shows up.
I can’t stop apologizing to him.
The paramedics rip his body out of my arms, leaving me cold and numb.
Cold, like the Colorado snow outside.
Frozen from feeling anyore.
I've never known anyone who died. Not one single person.
To me, death has always been something I've seen on TV or read about online, never a part of my real life. A surreal concept I can't quite wrap my head around.
Finality.
Gone.
Not ever seeing someone again.
A permanent goodbye.
Never…until now.
Wedged in-between a sniffling Brighton and a distant, detached Crew at Caleb's funeral, I realize there isn't a word in the English language that exists to fully express the depth of my sorrow. Sad. Heartbroken. Grief-stricken. Devastated. None of them seem to do this feeling justice, this feeling that's imbedded itself in every fiber of my being.
I twist my neck slightly, glancing over at Crew, and then Mary on the other side of him, and I can no longer ward off the onslaught of tears I've been desperately trying to hold back. A flood of warm, salty drops splash down my cheeks, some trickling into my mouth, while others roll under the collar of my black sweater-dress, as I witness a woman I've grown very fond of over the past month say goodbye to her baby boy.
I may not know much about death, but I know there's something intrinsically wrong about a parent burying their child. It should never happen. Especially not to people I care about.
More gut-wrenching than I ever imagined a funeral could be, the service is thankfully short. The chapel, though p
lenty large enough for the couple dozen people in attendance, feels as if the walls grow closer together with each passing minute, the air of false hopefulness evaporating rapidly. After reading scripture about God's promise of everlasting life in Heaven, the officiant encourages us all to rejoice over Caleb's life, rather than to mourn his death, and ends his message with a closing prayer.
Through it all, Crew sits silently, stonily staring straight ahead. His eyes stay dry and I’m not sure he’s heard a word that’s been said. I can’t tell if he’s trying to be strong for his mom, or if he’s still in shock. Maybe he’s still mentally on the bedroom floor with his brother, holding him tight. Mary told me the emergency personnel had to pry his arms away from Caleb, that he refused to let go.
Silently, we file out of the sanctuary into the brisk early-December afternoon. The picturesque, cloudless sky is the perfect contrast to our bleak, dreary moods, and as we drive away from the funeral—Crew and me in the backseat of Mary's SUV—I silently curse the bright afternoon sun that cheerfully shines down on the snow-covered mountains, mocking me through the window. Fuck being happy.
Once we're all back at the lodge, where Mel and Doug insisted everyone come, we share a somber dinner, despite Mary and her family's attempts to share funny and heartwarming Caleb stories. I smile politely and laugh softly where I'm supposed to, as does everyone else, but it's all an act. An act to hide the pain, confusion, and anger every last one of us feels.
Crew keeps a death grip on my hand the entire time, refusing to engage in conversation with anyone, not his aunts, uncles, cousins, or his grandparents...not my parents or siblings...not his mom or her boyfriend...not even me. Actually, I'm not sure I've heard him say more than four or five words since I arrived at their apartment four days ago, that dreadful Monday morning I received the heartbreaking phone call from Mary while on my way to school.