The Blue Collar Bachelors Box Set: The Complete Blue Collar Bachelors Series
Page 65
I retch involuntarily at her magnanimous offer. “Thanks, hun, but I’ll pass.” Pregnancy cravings combined with budgetary constraints have turned my sister into a gastronomical freak.
Anyway, Sophia is tougher than a Soprano. The fact that she’s still standing—and laughing—after the cards she’s been dealt, I’m in awe of her.
“You’re a freaking inspiration, you know that, Soapy?” I lean back on the cushions and smile at her.
Her hand draws circles on her belly. “Some days, looking forward to this baby is the only thing that keeps me going.” She picks up the yogurt bowls—one plain, the other garnished with mustard and marmalade—and shuffles toward the living area of her tiny apartment where I’m sitting.
“You’ve been through a lot. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you.” I take the bowl that she hands my way.
Her jaw begins to tremble as she crumbles onto the seat of the couch. Her gaze flickers to the floor and she hesitates before speaking. “I really needed you, Ang.” Her voice cracks on the words.
Guilt swells inside me and I try to swallow it down.
I thought I was doing my best. I thought I was staying in touch with her. But now that I’m actually back in Copper Heights, I see that the occasional Skype calls and WhatsApp chats with my sister weren’t enough. I should have been here for her. I put my career above all else. I let her down. I’m well aware of that now. She needed me. She still needs me.
Yes, it’s incredibly bullyshitty that I got kicked out of the internship program in Seattle but maybe it was a blessing in disguise.
“I’m so sorry…” I say in a hushed murmur as I envelop her with my free arm and we collapse into an awkward sideway hug. The tears come down hard and fast. “But I’m here now. We’re gonna raise the fuck out of this baby, Soapy. You hear me? Everything will turn out okay. Tell me you believe me.”
She pulls back and her eyes look so sad. “I’m glad that you’re here but I know you can’t stay. You can’t make a career for yourself here in this small town.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise. And I mean it.
Now that I’ve seen the conditions that she’s living in, I can’t leave her. I let my gaze traipse around the room. The floral-patterned wallpaper covering every vertical surface of the tiny apartment. The vinyl-covered chairs surrounding a creaky laminated kitchen table. The hideous lattice-patterned wall-to-wall carpet 'embellishing' the floor in varying shades of orange. It's basically like stepping onto the set of That 70s Show. Except I doubt the TV show set had this musky, wet dog odor. All jokes aside, she’s struggling. There’s no way I’ll up and leave now.
“Sophia, girl—we’re in this together so you’d better make room for me on your twin-sized cot.”
She narrows her eyes. “There’s no opportunity for you in Copper Heights.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I insist. “I’m as serious as an acute myocardial infraction.”
Brushing tears away from her eyes, she scoffs deep in her chest. "It's a heart attack."
"What's a heart attack?" I shake my head in confusion.
Her shoulders rock as she laughs. “As serious as a heart attack. That's the saying, you big nerd."
I flick my hand dismissively. “Whatever. I'm not a nerd. I'm bookish.”
“Bookish? You’re a walking medical encyclopedia!”
“Well, I’m finding creative ways to put my medical degree to use because within a week of working at that damn boring hospital, my brain is gonna wilt up like a head of lettuce.”
As her laughing peters off, Sophia shovels a heaping spoon of her yogurt concoction into her mouth. "So, you didn't give me any details. Tell me what happened with Ben.” Her eyes shimmer with excitement. “When you saw each other, was it like that reunion scene in the Notebook?"
I pause to glare at her. She’s a hopeless romantic and it’s plain silly. "It was not like the reunion scene in the Notebook."
My sister isn't satisfied with that answer. "Angela..." Her eyes darken with warning. “De-tails”. She drags out the word, slowly enunciating both syllables.
I lean back against the couch and twirl the spoon around in my yogurt. "I don’t know…He had this look on his face…”
“What kind of look?”
Lifting a shoulder, I let it fall. “This look…Like he was actually glad to see me. Or maybe ‘glad’ isn’t the right word. Maybe ‘relieved’.”
Sophia’s pretty features morph into a knowing expression. “He asked you out, didn’t he?”
My tongue runs nervously across my bottom lip. I don’t want her to start overanalyzing this. “He wanted to take me out for a drink.”
Her eyes widen like Frisbees and her jaw hangs open. “He asked you out?!” Glee spills out of her as she bounces in her seat like a child who’s just found out that her birthday party will be held at Chuck E. Cheese’s. “Are you serious? You said yes?”
“Of course not,” I spit out with furrowed brows. My volume creeps up as my anger takes over. “Okay, you seem to have forgotten what he did so let me give you a little refresher. The guy pretended to love me. We made plans for the future together. He had me convinced that he had my back. So I stood by his side when his father died. I was his shoulder to lean on. I got accepted into the most competitive pre-med program in the country and I was prepared to give up the opportunity and transfer to a closer college just so I could be near him. After all that, all it took was one little dose of fame for him to drop me. His damn boy band advanced one round on a damn reality TV show, and just like that—” I snap my fingers for effect, “—he tells me to leave town, to go to college wherever the hell I feel like because he had no intentions of messing up his shot at stardom for me.” I swallow hard and fight against the tickle at the back of my eyes. My voice drops to a quiet whisper. “No, a guy like that doesn’t get a second chance with me.”
On the heels of my rant, Sophia recoils and her expression shuts down. The hum of the fridge fills the long silence as we both get lost in our own heads. I can tell she feels bad for pressuring me but she needed to be reminded of what happened. I’m not mad at her for bringing it up. I just don’t want to have to relive Ben’s rejection at every turn. I’ve moved on.
Heavy tension hangs in the air…until she releases an unbridled belch into the silence.
I look over at her with feigned horror on my face. "Sophia! Our mother would be appalled. Agata Gallo's daughter knows better than to exhibit such lack of couth.”
Our mother directs her meticulously-crafted public image by the unwritten rules of the upper-middle class etiquette handbook. And right about now, she’s not very happy with either one of her daughters. We’ve irreversibly tarnished her name. One is pregnant and destitute with no baby daddy in sight. The other got kicked out of her medical internship after spreading her legs for the wrong guy.
Mom’s high-priced therapist won’t ever hear the end of it.
Whenever I’m tempted to complain about the living conditions at Sophia’s rundown shack on the bad side of town, imagining Mom and Dad’s blistering wrath sets me right back on track. They call demanding to see me every day but I plan to avoid the towering wrought-iron gates of my parents’ mini-mansion for as long as possible.
My sister giggles. "Sorry. Heartburn. I've been dealing with it from day one."
"Honey, I've seen worse. Trust me." I chuckle as I pick up my phone and get back to typing. “Anyway, I need to finish up this letter before bed.”
Sophia waits a beat before asking, “Are you sure you want to send it?”
“Of course I do.” I confirm in a hotly dignified tone. “I was unjustly terminated! I should sue that damn hospital! There were two willing actors involved in the unfortunate events that transpired in the 4th floor medical supply closet and it is completely unacceptable that one said actor should lose her career while the other gets to walk away without so much as a slap on the wrist. Any judge would agree.”
Her lips curl slight
ly and her tone brims with patience. “Sometimes, it’s not about whether a judge would agree with you or not. Sometimes, it’s about taking responsibility for your decisions. And figuring out how to dig your own way out of the hole you find yourself in.”
My fingers freeze over the screen. My sister’s good judgment is obviously clouded by peace, love and pregnancy hormones. There’s no good reason for me to take her advice. At least that’s what the stubborn chorus in my brain is saying even though I have to admit that her words resonate with me on a deeper level. Am I playing the victim here? Should I just let it go and move on?
No—that’s ridiculous. I deserve justice. “Yeah, whatever. That’s just stupid,” I hum under my breath as I resume typing.
Sophia gives a little shrug as a yawn rolls past her lips. “Suit yourself.” She curls up on the couch and scrapes her spoon along the sides of her yogurt bowl.
I sit at the other end of the couch, doggedly focused on perfecting my eloquently-worded hate mail. It takes me a few attempts to find words that fully express just how pissed I am but eventually, my masterpiece is done. The letter finds the perfect balance between clever jabs, thinly-veiled insults and explicit threats of legal action. I’m feeling pretty damn proud of myself.
“Okay—how does this sound?” I say excitedly before the sharply-worded message comes spilling off my tongue. A sense of satisfaction rises into my chest as I reach the end. I wait for Sophia’s reaction, but all I get in response is a steady flow of light snores.
She’s sleeping, adorably balled up against the side of the couch with the empty bowl in her lap. Her words replay in my head, making me doubt whether I should send this letter after all.
I totally resent her for saying what she did. And for being so damn right.
For the first time since this mess started, I find myself looking inward. Instead of feeling powerless and searching for someone to pin the blame on, I find myself craving control of the situation. I hit the ‘backspace’ key and delete the whole damn letter.
I drop the phone into my lap and I blow out a harsh breath that causes my bangs to flutter across my forehead. I hate that I find myself wondering what Ben’s advice on the situation would be. He doesn’t deserve an opinion and I honestly think I would die of mortification if he ever found out about the mess I created that sent me running back to Copper Heights. But the fact remains that, back in the day, Ben was my go-to, my best friend. He and I made decisions together, we made plans. We were just teenagers but his opinion mattered more than anyone else’s.
I miss that.
Seeing him was hard. It stirred up memories of a time when we faced the world as a team. I had his back and I thought he had mine. I thought I could conquer anything because he was always there to cheer me on and be my soft place to fall. Losing him exposed me to how cold and lonely the world can be.
Now, all of a sudden, I’m aching for a man’s companionship. Not a relationship, of course. Not someone who’ll barge into my life and start rearranging the furniture to make room for his own baggage, figuratively speaking. Just someone to pass the time with, someone temporary to make me forget how incredibly empty I feel. That’s the role I’ve assigned to every man I’ve been with since Benjamin Riggs broke me down, all the way to my nuts and bolts.
Tall, dark and dirty-talking with a side order of emotionally unavailable. That’s my usual hook-up of choice. But tonight, I have only two criteria. I’ll settle for 'not an axe murderer’ and ‘not Benjamin Riggs’.
I swipe open my phone and download the first dating app that pops up when I do a web search. CheekyChat. Hmm. Interesting. I set up a harried profile and invite a random man to meet me at a bar in the next town over.
Oh god.
This might not be exactly what Sophia had in mind when she said I need to take control but it’s the most immediate way I can think of. Before I can chicken out, I tiptoe across the room and slip into one of Sophia’s fancy pre-pregnancy get-ups. I drape a blanket over her and creep out the door with my purse tucked under my arm.
With my luck, let’s see how long it takes before things start skidding off track.
Chapter Six
Angie
“Please don’t let this guy be a freak please don’t let this guy be a freak please don’t let this guy be a freak…” I mutter into my fourth tequila shot. I toss my head back and scrunch up my nose when the alcohol slides down my throat into the pool of fire in my quivering belly.
It’s not like I’m scared, per se. I may not know martial arts but my surgical castration skills are dope and I ain’t ever been scared to use ‘em. But it’d be a shame if I have to resort to that tonight. I’m just looking for a little fun, a toe-curling distraction.
My attention catches on an old dude sitting at the other end of the bar. Oh god—he's giving me Super Creeper eyes. And because he thinks no one else is watching, he forms a circle with his fingers and wiggles his tongue around in the ‘O’ in a skeevy, languid motion.
I think I just threw up in my mouth. Somebody pass the eyebleach! I tug on the hem of my dress and quickly divert my poor, traumatized eyes.
The Opal Lounge is supposed to be a classy place. At least that’s what the online reviews say. No alarm bells went off when I stepped into the door. Everything looked just as it did in the pictures on their website. Elegant suede couches, purple strobe lights, intimate booths. Plus, it’s located in Reyfield, a small town 20 minutes outside of Copper Heights. My reputation has taken enough of a beating in recent times so I’d prefer it if my potential booty call stays out of my hometown’s rumor mill. According to the reviews, this place doesn’t get too busy on a Monday night. That’s why I chose to meet up with my blind date here. That way I can scope him out before taking him back to the room I rented at the hotel down the street.
No pressure re: hotel room, by the way. It’s simply a ‘just in case’. If Mr. Random and me hit it off and suddenly become overwhelmed by the urge to do the dirty, I’d rather be ready—y’know what I mean? I’m a girl who likes to be prepared.
I glance at the door for the hundredth time. I’m starting to feel a bit antsy. My gut tells me that I should leave. But I take another peek at my would-be date’s profile and my girl parts are howling at me to I stay. It’s your typical fuck-boy bathroom selfie, starring the impressive eight-pack on his long, lean, golden torso. His dark briefs hanging low on his deeply-carved V and the very obvious bulge beneath the fabric steals the show. And honorable mention goes to the large tattoo prominent on his bronzed, muscular arm. Cut me some slack—there’s a husky inked into his skin. The guy’s a freaking animal lover.
Maybe I’m shallow but that body looks like an amusement park I’d like to ride all night long.
Anyway, I picked him out in a hurry and now that I take a minute to really examine his profile, a part of me is starting to hope that Mr. SmallTownHotBoyXXX doesn’t ever show up. His face is cut out of the picture and that’s always a bad sign. Plus, the ‘Philosophical Ideals’ section of his profile contains profound gems such as “If you can’t take the lickin’, get out the kitchen”.
This is probably not the best decision I’ve ever made. Okay, yeah—I should get out of here.
When the bartender comes over to refill my shot glass, I ask for my bill instead. I quickly pay up and just as I’m grabbing my purse to leave, my eyes travel over to the door again. My breath gets caught in my throat.
Of all the people residing in the state of Illinois at this particular point in time, it’s Ben stepping inside. In a black leather jacket and dark wash jeans, shoulders back, hands in pockets, he looks like a million spontaneous orgasms waiting to happen.
How shitty is my luck right now? I had this all planned out. And Benjamin Riggs was definitely not part of the plan!
He stalls by the door as his gaze fans over the place. I immediately twist around on the barstool, angling my body away from the door and cupping my hand over the side of my face to hide behind my fingers.
Oh my god—Ben’s going to realize that I’m here trolling for sex!
Okay, Angie. Calm down. Deep breath. You are a grown woman. An empowered woman of the 21st century. How you choose to spend your time and who you choose to spend it with are none of your ex-boyfriend’s business. Hold your head high and own it!
Or find the back exit and make a run for it.
Hiding out in the ladies’ room until the bar closes is not such a bad option, either. It smells like freaking lemon-cinnamon potpourri in there. I could even take a nap on the velvet chaise lounge adjacent to the hand dryers. That would give me the chance to sober up. And frankly, it can’t be any less comfortable than sleeping on the couch at Sophia’s.
Enough stalling—It’s time to put Mission: Get the Hell Out of Here into motion.
Trying not to draw any attention to myself, I slide off the barstool and land on shaky feet. Moving around in high heels isn’t my specialty even on a good day. But right now, I’m halfway to drunk and I might as well be walking a greasy tight rope on stilts. I miss a step and fling both arms out at my sides in an attempt to regain my balance. This chain of clumsy movements causes my purse to slip from my grasp and hit the floor. The entire contents of my purse—my keys, my credit cards, my travel-sized toothpaste, my lacy spare thong and everything else—scatters around me under the flashing purple neon lights. Charming!