Hammered

by Mj Fields

  Okay, he caught me off guard. He did. Not a damn thing I can do about it, either. Won’t happen again, though.

  Jesus, what was I thinking? There won’t be another time. He wasn’t a local. He was using Carlin’s as a hookup spot. He won’t make that mistake again. Which is what I want. Yes. Yes, it’s exactly what I want...I think.

  What he just said to me, and the way he said it, combined with the fact that he is without a doubt the most attractive man who has ever stepped foot in this dive, possibly even on this planet, with his GQ looks, the way his clothes fit, and that freaking ink peeking out wherever his olive tone skin was uncovered, left me with very unwanted feelings.

  After our exchange, he should have been defensive, telling me all men aren’t dogs, or simply walk away. Hell, if he had called me a bitch, I wouldn’t have blamed him.

  I was.

  But no, the man who GQ should create an Inked edition for, just to showcase him, looked at me and said, “I was wondering how much of my cock would come out of that smart little mouth of yours when I bury it in your pussy.”

  Who the hell says that! Who?

  Him. G-inked.

  God, why am I still thinking about him. Was it the way his clothes fit him; the black, long-sleeved tee that hugged his shoulders, his arms, even his damn abs adoringly yet mockingly? Like they were saying, “Don’t you wish you were me?”

  Well, if the shirt had eyes, it would be jealous of his dark jeans, because they housed that exquisite ass.

  Christ, I try to scold myself. What is wrong with me?

  Desire? Need?

  Before he stormed out, I was ready to tell him to prove it.

  Prove it?

  I wanted to taunt and provoke him, like he did me, except I’m sure he didn’t walk out of here hard. Meanwhile, I swear I am burning inside, and that hasn’t happened in over a year, not after my last “forever.”

  Fuck men.

  Fuck him and his perfect dark brown hair that was cut short on the sides and left longer on top, begging to be gripped.

  Fuck him and those almost mystical amber brown eyes that were deep and alluring.

  Fuck him and those perfect lips.

  And fuck him and that perfectly trimmed scruff that I wish were scratching against my thighs.

  “Fuck him,” I say out loud so it holds more truth.

  I look down at the tip he left, and after the initial shock of the crisp hundred-dollar bill staring me in the face, I laugh out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” Mandee, the owner’s daughter and my best friend, asks from behind me.

  I hold up the bill. “Apparently, he had some extra cash to blow when his hooker bailed.”

  She grins. “Dang.”

  I love this girl. Love her, and I would do anything for her, including tearing apart a man like whatever the hell his name was to make her realize it’s okay to be strong, to not allow men to walk all over you.

  “Mandee,” her father, William, calls from the back room where his office is located. “I need a minute.”

  “You okay alone?” she asks, giving my hand a squeeze.

  “I’m fine. Go.” I nod then grab the bar rag to wipe down the spot his drink sat.

  When I hesitate because I don’t want to completely wipe him away, I curse at myself under my breath. Then I force myself to wipe it clean.

  Focus.

  Men suck. They’re good for two things: peen and procreation.

  Be strong for Mandee.

  Mandee.

  Mandee was in a horrible relationship. The guy was a first-class dick. Controlling, emotionally abusive, and a cheat.

  I had my share of the same and got through it all fine. She will do the same.

  My love life is a joke.

  My first boyfriend, Paul, was preppy and came from a good family; the most prominent in our town. He made good grades and was one of my very best friends.

  Graduation day from high school, my best friend Samantha and I exchanged BFF necklaces. You know, the one heart, two necklace thing. We laughed about how dorky they were, but we didn’t care. We were going in separate directions, yet we would forever be the same people we were at that moment, best friends.

  Paul gave me a promise/pre-engagement ring, and I gave him my V card. We were also going to different schools, but we would spend every break, holiday, and long weekend together.

  Funny thing about promises, necklaces, and rings, they can be tossed down the toilet and flushed just like shit.

  A week before I left for college, I walked in on Paul and Samantha having sex. Yeah, nice, huh?

  After the initial shock and freak out, I walked out, leaving them both sobbing.

  After my week of hell and wondering what it was I did to make this happen and realizing not a damn thing, I told them best of luck and wrote them both off. Then I changed my phone number, because they clearly didn’t want me to write them off. They both called, left messages, and sent me texts. I never replied.

  Done.

  I was done.

  I left my past behind and readied myself to live the life of a strong, independent woman when I went to Rutgers to study psychology. That’s where Mandee and I met, bonded over pizza, taco Tuesday, and bad relationships. We became best friends.

  Which is also why I’m here. Well, that and with a bachelor in psychology, there isn’t a hell of a lot to do that will make the money and impact I want to on society. So, from now until the end of summer, I’m considering my options as I bartend here, at Carlin’s, three nights a week, and wait tables four days a week. Two jobs are necessary. I will need the cash if I choose option two.

  One option is to never use my degree because it’s a fact that people don’t change unless they want to or want to manipulate someone into thinking they will for them. Or, option two: going back to school and getting my doctorate.

  No pressure, I laugh at myself. None.

  “Got a minute?” Mandee calls from the back.

  I nod and walk back to her. By the look on her face, I can tell she’s upset.

  “What’s up?” I ask, truly concerned.

  She looks down. I know that look. Oh, shit, I think, it’s me.

  “Dad,” she whispers. “He was just upset that the guy in the nice clothes left.”

  “The guy was a dick,” I sneer.

  “I’m not mad,” she whispers a little louder. “He doesn’t want...us driving away business.”

  I sigh. “By us, you mean me.”

  “No, I mean us.” she smiles softly. “We just have to be a little less bad butt.”

  “Again, by we, you mean me. And by butt, you mean...” I pause when her father walks past us, nose in the air. “Ass,” comes out in a growl, totally directed at him.

  He doesn’t notice.

  Self-righteous, self-serving tool.

  She smirks, knowing exactly how I feel about the man, and nods.

  “All right then.” I roll my eyes, and then we both get back to work.

  When I pull down the long dirt road, I can’t help smiling at the place I have called home for a week now, even though I’m exhausted.

  Mandee was a little disappointed that I turned down the offer to stay with her and her father, but after two days, that was enough to tell me I had made the right choice in finding my own place.

  I wanted to be free. I wanted to “adult.” I had gone from my parents’ home to the dorms. It was time to spread my wings and fly, to rise from the ashes like my namesake, the Phoenix, implied I could.

  When I saw the ad on Google for a two-bedroom cabin at a place called “Falcon’s Landing,” it was almost as if it was meant to be.

  When I called and learned the rent was much more than I wanted to spend, I was shocked that the woman asked what I could afford. Who does that?

  I told her a thousand dollars with everything included was the most I could spend if I was going to be able to save for graduate school. She sent me an email with pictures of the cabin and the land surroundi
ng it.

  It was stunning.

  She told me that only one of the ten cabins was rented and the main house, which was stunning, was unoccupied most of the time. She said the property was a work in progress and needed a lot of work before the owner would be ready to open it up.

  The one cabin rented was to an elderly woman, Mags, who was a friend of the property owners’ family. She looked after it and was hell-bent on doing lawn work, gardening, and landscaping.

  The woman laughed then sighed as she told me about Mags. “We couldn’t tell her no.” She spoke of her with kindness and adoration.

  “I’d love to help her,” came out of my mouth before I had actually thought about it.

  “If you’re willing, then eight hundred a month would be perfect,” the woman said.

  “But I said a thou—”

  “It’ll be nice to know someone is there to check on Mags once in a while. And if you don’t mind mowing occasionally, well, that would be nice, too.”

  I immediately received another email with a rental agreement, and that was it. I am now an independent woman, with a place of my own, responsibilities, and an old woman to keep company.

  Old people, they rank right up there with babies. I would prefer to be around them over anyone. They are wisdom and knowledge.

  After losing my grandmother, the woman who was for all intents and purposes, myself and my siblings’ parent, I felt almost alone. My parents work all the time at the salon they own, and now the chain of them. They are never home. My Nan, she was always there.

  When I lost her, I lost my person, my wisdom and my source of answers to all life’s questions. I also gained the responsibility of three siblings. And although they aren’t babies—I preferred them when they were—it was a lot for me to take on while trying to be a teenager, keep my grades up, and...become the me I am supposed to be.

  I hit the brakes, grab my phone, and hit my newly added country playlist as I look at the view in front of me. The place I will rise, and live, and learn about me.

  No better place to get to know yourself than in the middle of the woods. It’s also scary as hell for someone like me, who has lived in the city, surrounded by so many people it’s a wonder there was enough oxygen for us all to survive.

  Here, there is plenty, and with Thomas Rhett’s “Die A Happy Man” playing over my Jeep’s speakers, I smile, knowing whatever decision I make at the end of the summer, I had this. This beautiful place to come and breathe.

  When I pull up beside my place, I do the usual—look out every window for possible bears or forest creatures, make sure my cabin key is firmly in hand, and grab my bag as I ready for the sprint to the safety of my place.

  Once inside, I laugh at myself, telling myself once again that I will get used to it. Then I strip as I walk to the bathroom to shower before jumping into my nice comfy bed. My goal for tomorrow is to get up before Mags and have a cup of coffee ready for her before she has one for me.

  I wake to “Hello World” by Lady Antebellum, sigh, and roll to my side to look at the window, realizing I hadn’t drawn the curtains when I went to sleep. I’m glad I didn’t.

  The upper edge of the sun is creeping up over the crest of the tall pines. Its size is tremendously impressive; its color orange and yellow. The clouds, I think as I sit up and stretch, my God, the clouds are almost purple, majestic. It’s awe-inspiring, humbling, and gives me the feeling that I don’t have to be the person who helps make everyone’s fears or insecurities diminish by showing them just how big and bad I am so they can feel they can be that, too. There is something bigger than all of us. Something that is consistent and beautiful. Mandee needs to see this. She needs to see it from here, this miraculous view.

  I love it here. Best decision I ever made was to put myself first. Sort of. Well, I’m working on it, anyway.

  I swing my legs over the side of the huge, log-framed bed and slide off. My feet hit the cool wooden floor, sending shivers throughout my body.

  I quickly step into my slippers and grab my red flannel robe, wrapping up in it as I walk to the window and watch quietly for the rising sun to warm my soul as it does the earth.

  After a few quiet and reflective moments, I hurry out to the kitchen sink, where I push up on my tiptoes and look out the window to see if Mags has beat me to it again. I don’t see her, so I turn on the water and fill the pot.

  Peace, I feel at peace in my quiet, country space.

  The song changes to The Dixie Chicks’ “Wide Open Spaces,” and even though I have just recently discovered this song, I decide it actually discovered me.

  “She needs wide open spaces, room to make a big mistake,” I sing along with the song and smile.

  I’m here for me. No one to take care of but me. No one to let down but me. And I’m going to do it up. Well, after making coffee for Mags, going to work at the diner, coming back here to shower and change so I don’t smell like a deep fryer, before going to the bar and working a six-hour shift, and then coming back here to do it all over again.

  One more day, I tell myself, then you have two whole days off to enjoy this place.

  Home.

  Chapter Three

  Waking Up

  Gage

  I sit up, feeling overheated. The sun is beating down on me through the wall of windows facing the east. I look over at my alarm clock, seeing it’s ten in the morning. Could have slept longer if the fucking sun wasn’t doing its thing. After all, I’m on vacation.

  I grumble at the thought, throw the covers off my body, and roll over, burying my face in the white sheets, determined to sleep until a little before noon when I have to meet the property manager to go over some contracts.

  I feel like hell. Haven’t drunk that much in years. Jameson isn’t my damn friend. Well, the half bottle I drank when I got back from that fucking dive bar isn’t. Had I not drank it, I would have gotten in my truck and gone back and told that little shit behind the bar that she was fucking mistaken, real fucking confused because she wasn’t pissed at me. She fucking wanted me. Guarantee I left her in a puddle. Probably still standing on that stool, trying to figure out how not to drown in the pool of her own need that was no doubt flooding the place.

  “Fuck,” I grumble as I roll over, knowing damn well my dick is going to be hard as fuck thinking about her dark brown eyes that were instantly liquid when I told her what the hell I was thinking. Her plump lips that I thought of when I nearly pulled my cock off getting myself off last night, not just once, not even twice, but three fucking times. I came hard to the thoughts of her I had stuck in my head.

  “That’s enough, motherfucker,” I scold my dick as I push up off the bed.

  I pull open the french doors and walk outside onto the deck.

  If looking out over my land and seeing all the shit I need to do on my “vacation” doesn’t make me forget about the cockblock I want to nail, nothing will.

  I look down at the tire swing, and my chest squeezes at thinking about the last time I was here, with my boy, with Brand. He loves that fucking swing. Loves fishing, too. Now that the ex has gotten her shit together, he’s spending time with her.

  First three years of his life we were married, he was the only thing good about a marriage that was fucked from the get-go. One-night-stand, resulting in a kid, I did the right fucking thing, like always, and married her ass. Thought it would be fine, but there is nothing fine about living a lie for years.

  When we split, I didn’t want to ever look at her again. I told her that I hated the sight of her. But Brand...Brand deserved better than that bitch. I was right; he did.

  I went to pick him up one morning, and some fucking drunk stumbled out of her bedroom in whitie-tighties, while she was clearly fucking hungover, possibly still drunk. Brand was three and a half.

  I took him, got full custody, and she threatened to fight it. That threat went away when I told her I would pay her ass to stay away. She took thirty grand and was gone for two fucking years.

>   Wish she never came back. Cunt.

  But the cunt went to school, got a degree in nursing, got her shit together, and went above my head. I’m a tall motherfucker, so going above my head is a feat in itself.

  She went to my mom.

  My own mother pushed me to allow visits, now a year and a half later, after supervised visits for a year and a psych exam. Now she has him for a month.

  Not a fucking thing I can do about it. If I push, I will lose him.

  That boy has been my little toolbelt for five years. If I want him to be in my life, I need to do what’s right for him and every motherfucker involved, no matter how much I hate it.

  And I hate it.

  I walk into Hope’s Table, a diner in town, to meet Shirley to go over the plans and grab a couple contracts.

  I see her wave from the corner.

  Shirley is a trip. She has been friends with my mom for years. Well, since they bought the property here years ago. She’s single, in her fifties, and looks maybe thirty-five. I’m sure it has something to do with any number of the docs she’s dated, which is about one a year since her divorce. She’s not shy about her lifestyle, not even a little. She knows what she wants, and she gets it, too.

  I walk over and sit down, and she smiles.

  “Ordered coffee. Didn’t know if you had your fill already today or not. Me, I live on the stuff. So, if you don’t want it black and strong, I’ll drink yours, too.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I say as I shrug off my leather jacket and toss it into the booth.

  “Well, look at you.” She grabs my hands, both of them, and looks at my knuckles. “Overcome.” She looks up at me after inspecting them, still holding my hands. “And what does this mean?”

  “Means overcome.” I smile. I hate that people want to know what my ink means to me. I don’t tell them. Usually, I give them some shit answer to fuck with them.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I hear a very soft mumble before the clank of the cups.

  I look up and smirk. Can’t help it. It’s the bartender.

  “Morning.” I nod and pull my hands back and away from Shirley as I sit back with a shitass grin on my face. She looks like she didn’t sleep for shit, either.