by Grey, R. S.
“Did you ask Mr. Harris for an advance?”
She and I discussed that possibility last night.
“Yes.”
“And?”
My stomach twists as I recall my encounter with my boss at the motel this afternoon, his too-tight shirt stretched over his pot belly, his leftover tuna sandwich stinking up his dingy office. When I told him why I needed the small advance, explaining how much my family and I depend on our car—it’s how McKenna gets to school, how I get to work, and how my mom gets to Livingston on the weekends to take classes so she can finally become a certified aesthetician—he leaned back in his chair, digging between his teeth with a toothpick. Really working at the tuna fish stuck between them.
“So it’s a few extra bucks you want?” he asked, leering at my chest.
My uniform—a drab khaki dress—would have been formfitting if I hadn’t sized up on my first day at the job. I did that to prevent this very thing: Mr. Harris looking at me like I’m an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“How badly do you need it?” he continued as his eyes dragged lower. His meaty hands clenched tight. He wanted to squash me like a butterfly.
Our conversation didn’t continue after that.
“He can’t give me one,” I report to my mom, shivering at the remnants of that memory. “But there are other ways—”
“I’ll pick up some shifts at Lonny’s,” she suggests, sounding like she hates the words even as they leave her mouth.
I sit up straighter and press the phone closer to my mouth. “No, Mom. No.” I’m angry now, angry that we’ve been put in this position. “We’ll figure out another option.”
Lonny’s always been my mom’s worst vice. He’s the one who got her into drinking so heavily in the first place, a guy who’d trade his soul for a bottle of tequila. The day she kicked him to the curb was one of the best days of my life. I won’t let us slide backward, not when we’re so close to getting our feet under us for good. My mom will graduate from her program this summer and then she can start her own salon and be able to support herself and McKenna without my help. I’ll be free. Finally.
“All right. I just don’t want you to feel like this is all on your shoulders.”
I pick at a speck of dirt on my jeans, the pair I bring to work every day so I can rip that khaki dress off as soon as my shift ends. The day I quit, I’ll burn it in a dumpster.
“It’s fine. Really.”
“When’s your cousin supposed to pick you up anyway? It’s already 8:30.”
“He had a late shift.”
“All right. Call me if he doesn’t show up and I’ll see if Nancy can come grab you.”
The last half of her sentence fades as one of the suits comes up to the bar to order another round. I don’t have to glance over to realize it’s him. He’s two stools down from me—far enough away that it isn’t presumptuous, but close enough to send a message.
“Okay, I gotta go,” I say, already pulling the phone away from my ear.
“Love you,” she says, just before I hang up.
I drop my phone on the bar as the suit finally speaks.
“Can I get two Dos Equis with lime and two Bud Lights?”
His voice sends a warm shiver down my spine. It’s smooth and refined, no hint of a twang.
The bartender grunts and starts reaching for beers so he can pop the tops.
I glance to my left just enough to see that the suit is checking out my shot glass full of cherries with narrowed eyes. It dawns on me that he probably thinks I’m underage.
“I’ll take a Dos Equis too,” I blurt out suddenly, without thought. Apparently, my pride is worth the five bucks the beer will cost me, though that’s nearly an hour’s wage. An hour of scrubbing toilets and making beds and trying to avoid weird stains left by weird people, all gone because of a childish impulse.
I don’t want a beer, but now I have no choice because the bartender’s already popping the top and reaching for limes.
Country music plays softly, filling the silence that stretches between me and the suit. If he’s going to make a move, this is his time to do it.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to turn fully toward me and say something charming. I’ve heard a lot of opening lines from a lot of men in this town, nearly all of them unwelcome. It’s got me curious to see what this guy has to offer. Surely he’d be better. Surely he knows how to make a woman forget about her troubles, even if just for the night.
I peer over at him from beneath my lashes. He’s taken off his suit jacket, and his white collared shirt is rolled up to reveal his muscled forearms. His shiny silver watch winks at me under the hazy bar lights. Its dark brown leather strap is a good disguise, but I still recognize its value—likely more than the car I’m trying desperately to fix or even the trailer my mom inherited from her father that we’ve lived in my whole life.
That damn watch is a sucker punch to my gut after the day I’ve had, a visual representation of how different life is for some people.
Five beers clink on the bar top, and before the suit walks away with four of them, he tells the bartender to add my beer to his tab. Just that. Not a word in my direction. He just assumes I want him paying for my beer.
Arrogant bastard.
If I could afford to do it, I would refuse. Instead, I say nothing.
As he walks back to rejoin his friends, I dissect every possible motive he might have had for buying my drink. Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he took one look at my thrift-store jeans and white t-shirt and felt a sense of pity. Sure, there’s a little hole in the armpit, but it’s still a decent shirt!
Whatever he was thinking, that beer tastes like piss as I down the first sip.
I want to leave it there on the bar, untouched, but I have nothing better to do than drink it as I sit and wait for Jeremy to come pick me up. He’s late and not answering his phone. I try his number again and the call goes unanswered. I’m half convinced he won’t show up at all.
I stifle a groan at the idea of having to find another way home. There’s a ten-mile stretch of highway between our trailer and this bar, ten miles I’d have to walk in the dead of night. I’ve done it before, a few times, but I’d rather not do it today. I don’t think I have it in me. I’d be better off heading to that booth in the corner and tucking myself in for the night.
When a round of laughter comes from the men behind me, I resist the urge to turn around. Another sip of beer warms my belly, and I realize it’s starting to go to my head. I’m a lightweight. I don’t drink often, and especially not on an empty stomach. The world gets fuzzy and my problems come into sharp focus.
I lied to my mom on the phone. When I told her we could figure out another option, I sounded hopeful, but what hope is there? What options are there in a town as small as Oak Dale? The truth is we’re at rock bottom. We’ve been surviving down here so long, I’m not quite sure what life would feel like otherwise.
When I’m done with my beer, I push it away and polish off my cherries. I can practically hear my stomach groaning in protest: Please, please put some kind of leafy green inside me before you die.
Chairs screech across the floor as the suits stand to leave. One of them comes up to the bar to close out their tab, but it’s not the one I’m interested in, so what do I care?
There’s a sense of loss as I realize he’s going with them, exiting the bar and leaving me behind.
As they walk out, I strain my ears, trying to listen for him, but they’re all chatting at once and I can’t distinguish one voice from another. The bar’s door swings open and road noise from the highway rushes in, cars zooming past our small neck of the woods on their way to someplace better.
I pick at the label on my beer as the door swings shut again, leaving me alone with two regulars down at the end of the bar and the bartender who’s still harboring ill will toward me about the cherries. I know because he keeps grumbling “ungrateful brat” under his breath. Altogether, we’d make a well-rounded
cast for an antidepressant commercial, and I know I must be feeling down because even that thought doesn’t make me smile.
“You need anything?” the bartender asks, speaking to the area of the room where the suits were sitting a few minutes ago, and my head whips over my shoulder so fast I nearly fall off my stool.
He’s still there.
Alone.
Sitting at the table and telling the bartender he’s all set. He doesn’t want another drink…so then why is he still here? There’s no game on the TV over the bar—it’s been busted for years. There’s no one around to offer up witty conversation unless you count the belching pair in the far corner. (I don’t.)
Then his gaze finds mine and I get it.
He’s here for me.
My heart lurches to a stop, misses a beat, and then starts to thump wildly.
He’s not the answer to my problems. He’d be nothing more than a distraction, a short reprieve from the weight of life’s boot on my neck.
I meet his eyes head on.
God, he’s so good-looking with that rough edge to him. He’s a man’s man. Broad chest, veined forearms, tall frame. Even now, he’s not smiling. His brows are furrowed and his supple mouth—arguably the only soft thing about him—is marked by a terse frown. It’s like he’s mad at me for putting us in this position, mad at me for making him want to stay.
I could aim the same resentment right back at him. I’ve never had a one-night stand before because I’ve never met a guy who made me want to do it. This man is seductive without even trying, sensual even as he sits half a bar away from me, partially reclined, assessing me coolly. In any setting, he’d turn heads. In this setting, he captures my full attention.
It occurs to me that I could walk out of the bar right now and keep my heart in one piece. Nothing good would come from this encounter.
Tomorrow, this stranger will be gone and my life will resume.
My life.
Four years since graduating from high school and I’m still here, unable to escape this nightmarish merry-go-round. We work and we save only to have some disaster strike—car breaks down, insurance doesn’t cover McKenna’s new asthma medication, A/C busts, roof needs fixing—and here we are again, right back at square one, just as broke as the day we started.
My hands shake and my throat aches from trying to keep these tears unshed.
I can’t do it anymore.
This life is going to send me to an early grave. I need an emergency stop button, a safety valve that triggers a spring that will propel me from this barstool and send me to a deserted island where credit card bills and crappy bosses don’t exist. Actually, let’s scrap the island. I’m not picky. I’ll take a quiet night in my mom’s trailer, staring at a blank wall as long as no one reminds me of the doom that awaits me in the morning.
That emergency stop button doesn’t exist, but this man does.
So, I will go down this path, just so I can step off the merry-go-round for one night.
I look pointedly toward the side hallway, the one that leads to the bathroom, making sure he gets the message. Then I slide off my barstool at the same time his chair scrapes across the wood floor.
There’s no going back now.
Chapter 2
Taylor
I’m in a daze as I walk to the bathroom, my body propelling itself forward one step at a time without me even realizing what I’m doing. I’m in shock. That’s what this is, shock that I’m about to go through with this. My conscience tries to shout at me to stop, to turn and run while I still have the option, but then I’m in front of the door for the women’s bathroom and a hand much bigger than mine is pushing it open for me.
I’d forgotten about the mirrors. I wish they weren’t here, two of them sitting over old porcelain sinks. They’re cracked and stained, but I still see my reflection well enough to be confronted by my actions.
My mother’s brown eyes stare back at me, alluringly slanted up in the corners like I possess some untold mysteries.
My long brown hair hangs loose down to the middle of my spine in lazy waves.
My full lips are the stuff of dreams, or so I’ve been told. I suppose I have them to thank for bringing this dark stranger to me tonight.
I’m not unaware of the full package I present: the high cheekbones, cinched waist, and grown-up curves.
The way I look has never been something I’ve celebrated, though. In fact, it’s caused me nothing but grief. My mother’s boyfriends were always a little too interested in me. School teachers and parents assumed things about me based on the way I looked, like my sole purpose in life was to lure the men in this town off the path of righteousness. My bosses have never seen me as anyone with value beyond my appearance, my conversation with Mr. Harris earlier today a prime example. After all the unwanted advances and snide remarks—well, it’s obvious why I don’t wear much makeup or bother with tight clothes. There’s no point in making the problem worse.
A hard chest hits my back, pushing me farther into the bathroom, and awareness trickles down my spine. He had a choice just like I did. He didn’t have to follow me back here, but that door is already swinging shut and his presence is filling the quiet space.
His hand hits my bicep so he can direct me forward. In the mirror, I see how easily he towers over me. The distance between the top of my head and his chin could be measured in miles, not feet.
We make a striking pair: dark features perfectly matched, brown eyes of such varying shades they shouldn’t even be classified as the same color. We’re two beautiful people about to make some very bad decisions.
“How old are you?” he asks, meeting my eyes in the mirror. My body stills as I realize his tone is as sharp as his cheekbones.
“Twenty-two.”
His brow arches in judgment. “Pretty young to be sitting in a bar by yourself.”
I don’t deign to justify my life to him. If he wants an explanation for why I’m here right now, he can ask nicely. Until then, I’ll turn the spotlight back on him.
“Why didn’t you leave with your friends?”
His free hand reaches for the hair hanging over my shoulder. I watch him in the mirror as he brushes it behind my back and an involuntary shiver racks through me.
“I didn’t want to,” he says quietly.
“Why?” I push.
His gaze flicks back to mine. “You looked sad sitting up at the bar all alone. I guess a part of me wanted to make sure you were okay.”
That was the last thing I expected him to say. Uh, ’cause you’re hot was about the response I thought I’d receive.
An avalanche of emotion collapses on me so suddenly, I’m trembling with the need to give up control of these tears, to let my shoulders slump and my spine crumble. I squeeze my eyes shut.
When’s the last time someone wondered if I was okay?
I can’t cry. I can’t let him see me at my most vulnerable. He won’t want to go through with this if I turn into a blubbering mess. Oh, you thought we were coming in here to do naughty things? No, I’m actually looking to ugly sob for about thirty minutes while you rock me gently.
He cares.
Why?
He’s a stranger, someone I’ve only spoken a handful of words to, but I know instinctively he doesn’t want to take advantage of me. Besides, he already could have.
We’re alone in this bathroom right now. No one is going to come check on us. He could push me up against the wall and do as he pleases, and yet he holds perfectly still, waiting for me to respond.
My sadness quickly gives way to anger, just like it always does. Tears won’t help me out of this mess. Self-pity won’t solve my problems. I’m only standing here in this moment because of my strength and my sheer will to survive another day.
When I’m sure the tears are at bay, I blink my eyes open again and reach for his hand, the one that touched my hair so reverently it nearly burst my heart wide open.
“And what did the other part of you want to do
? The part of you not worrying if I was okay…” I ask, my voice as sultry they come.
His gaze darkens in the mirror and I’m surprised to see he’s not a man possessed by lust and desire. He looks troubled and confused, almost as if he’s about to turn and walk right out the door.
I don’t give him the chance.
I turn around, rise up onto my toes, and press my soft curves against him at the same time my lips touch his.
The gentle kiss shocks him.
His hand tightens painfully on my bicep, and then, just as quickly, he loosens it, brushing his hand up and down my bare skin, soothing the ache as if he’s scared he hurt me.
He doesn’t kiss me back right away, but I’m persistent, and when he finally does, our awkward, stilted movements turn into something sweeter: a kiss you share with your best guy friend the summer you turn fourteen, a kiss stolen when you know your parents aren’t looking. It’s tender and tentative, nothing but soft lips and unspoken possibilities.
We’re not teenagers, though. This is a warm-blooded man I’m pushing my body against. No matter how much he might be concerned for my wellbeing, he can only hold out for so long as I continue to kiss him, seduce him, tempt him. My heavy breasts brush against his chest as I smooth my hand up over the cool fabric of his button-down. I make it past his collar and then my palm is against his neck, touching his skin for the very first time. He’s so hot, I melt, and he must feel the heat too because he groans hungrily. The sound shakes me to my core, and suddenly I’m second-guessing myself, fearful about the situation I’ve put myself in.
This isn’t a man you use for a night. This is a man you turn your life upside down to be with, one you crawl on hands and knees to please, one who touches you once and brands your soul forever.
I break our kiss on impulse, needing space, needing a moment to get a full breath. My chest is heaving. My hands are shaking.
This is crazy! I don’t do things like this! I work and I scrimp and I save and I worry about the ways life is going to screw me over tomorrow. I don’t let handsome strangers follow me into bathrooms!