by Finn, Emilia
“You are a stranger. I don’t know you!”
“You absolutely do,” he pushes. “This is a small town, and you’re a local since forever. You introduce yourself every day in monotone to remind me we aren’t friends. But it’s no mystery who we are, why we’re here, and that me and my buddies are cops.”
“Were cops!”
“See?” He lifts a sexy brow and shoots me down. “You know who we are. I’m not your problem, Katrina. I’m not your enemy.”
“You’re a man between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five. That makes you a problem for me.”
“Scared the spiderwebs might fall out the second I undress you?”
I shoot back with a gasp and ball my hand into a fist. I resemble a stunned guppy fish with the way I make the O-shape with my lips. “Who the hell do you think you are? Get out of my booth!”
“Wait.” Instant regret shines in his eyes. “Katrina, I’m sor–”
I grab him by the scruff of his shirt and tug until he takes a hint. The diner is half-full, and their stares feel like a billion halogen lights burning the back of my neck. “Get out of my diner, and don’t come back again.”
“Katrina! I’m sorry.”
“I don’t accept apologies. I accept action, which is something every man between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five lacks. You’re all fat, lazy, stupid, and useless. Congratulations, jerk. You bought your minute, and now you’re on your ass.”
I stand my ground as Eric’s long body unfolds and his eyes blaze high above me. He’s not as broad as his Bishop friends, and he doesn’t appear as dangerous, but it’s all a ruse, a show to make people comfortable. Because the fire burns in his eyes, and the delicate ink that rolls from his upper chest and over the side of his neck ripples when he swallows.
“I’m sorry I mentioned the spiderwebs thing. That was disrespectful.”
“No, that falls under stupid, but it’s okay, I didn’t expect anything more. Men your age are single for a reason: you’ve been tried, you’ve been tested, and you were found lacking. I trust whoever she was, and I promise I don’t feel the urge to tame the untamable man. Your name ain’t George Clooney, and mine isn’t Stupid. Please stop coming in here. You’re barking up the wrong tree, and forcing me to argue with a customer puts my job at risk. Don’t put my grocery money at risk, Eric. It’s not cool, and it’s definitely not cute.”
Turning away from the hurt that blazes in his eyes, I flip my hair back and toss a little more sass to scare him off, then I walk into the kitchen and snatch his order from the board. “Cancel order. Sorry, guys. I’ll pay for this one and fix Franky up for the lost income.”
With shaking hands I work extra hard to ignore, I push into the hall, walk straight into the locker room, and slam it with a cry, because I’m one of those weirdos who gets emotional during high intensity moments. Pressing my back to the door and hunching low, I weave my hands into my hair and breathe through the nausea that rolls in my stomach.
So much for dignity.
Fuck Zeke for calling me today. Fuck him for being a deadbeat who drives the seaboard and knocks women up for fun. He doesn’t spend any time with our son despite my offers over the years. I’ve practically pleaded sometimes when Mac becomes withdrawn. When he sees his best friend with his male figures around to train with at the gym or to run with in the mornings. Mac retreats into his shell when he watches the way the gym family act around their children, because all he has once those gym doors close is an overworked mom and a night of drying silverware before we can escape to our lonely apartment.
Fuck Zeke for turning me into a psycho bitch who can’t even look at a man without freaking out and wanting to rip my own ovaries out with a clothes hanger.
I’ll be damned if I go two for two and get knocked up again.
“Katrina?” A voice I recognize makes me shoot tall and swipe a hand across my cheek. “Hey, psycho, you in there?”
“Oh, God.” I step back when the door pushes open and bumps my ass. Hastily scrubbing my hand over my cheeks, I walk across the small room to open my locker and pretend I’m not crazy.
Meg Montgomery, former Franky’s employee and the closest thing I have to a girlfriend, steps into the dark room with a diaper bag on her shoulder, but no baby in sight. Meg is tall, blonde, perfect, and practically married to the man who helped my son make a heart-shaped jewelry box for my birthday. Meg’s living the life I’d kill for, and my love for her is often overshadowed by my deeply etched jealousy and pettiness. “Pretty sure the whole town just heard you blow up, Blair. Your period coming soon?”
“Shut up!” I yank the scarf from my hair and begin running my comb through to smooth it out. “You don’t get an opinion on my tantrums, Megan. You don’t even work here anymore, and this room is for staff only, so…”
“Oh, Frosty Tits McGee is here to play.” She sets her bag down with a grunt and reaches up to push her hair back. “I guess we get mean mom today, huh? Got something you wanna talk about?”
“Nope. I gotta get back to work.”
“I met Eric before.” Of course she ignores my bad mood and pushes on. “He came to family dinner with Jess and Kane that time. I’m just saying, he was really nice. He was respectful, ate his food without complaining, laughed at Oz’s dumb jokes, and didn’t back down when the guys grilled him. It’s no secret he’s been in town a while, and everyone knows he likes to spend his time here staring at you.”
“Everyone knows that?” I pause halfway through tying my hair into a new ponytail. “Everyone talks about me?”
“Of course everyone talks about you! This is a small town, and he’s single, so you know the girls are gonna try to set him up. Every time they try, he excuses himself to the bathroom. Next thing we know, he’s eating at Franky’s diner. I’m pretty sure he ain’t here to watch the guys cook.”
“He’s hungry.”
Meg flashes a filthy grin and leans back against the wall. “He sure is. He wants to eat you right up. One delectable bite at a time.”
“Shut up!” I turn back to my locker and take out a tube of lipstick. “I don’t know the guy, Meg. I don’t know his people. I don’t know his work. A guy can’t just turn up and start staring and expect me to be cool with it.”
Shrugging, she walks across the small room and strokes the back of my hair as though I missed a bit. “You’re allowed to have a little fun, you know? Your son is a teenager, not six months old. Single moms are allowed to sleep with other single people. Nobody will judge you.”
“Zeke has another baby on the way.” I push the cap onto my lipstick and toss it into the locker. Slamming the door and turning, I meet Meg’s eyes. “My good-for-nothing, jobless, brainless idiot of an ex just goes with the wind. He does whatever the hell he wants; he fucks women in every town he passes through, knocks them up, walks away like he’s not hurting people, and every time I find out, I have to decide whether or not to tell Mac. Zeke is using up all of our wind, Meg, so there’s none left for me. I won’t do that to Mac. No way in hell.”
Her eyes sparkle with hurt. “How many are there?”
“Three! Four. I don’t know. Honestly? Probably more than a dozen.” I push my hands over my face and groan. “How can he so easily walk away from his own children? His own flesh and blood. How could I be so stupid to hook up with him?”
“You were fifteen, Katrina. You were a child. We’re not emotionally capable of making those choices when we’re that young.”
“Well, I still did it! I still went to bed with a dog, and now I have fleas.”
“You need to stop letting someone else’s actions dictate how you feel about yourself. So you slept with a dude fourteen years ago. So what? So did I. At least you didn’t marry your idiot. You’re free of him, babe. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you are. You’re the woman every other chick in this town envies for your strength and determination. You raise your son like a boss; you work damn hard and have just about every man in town watching his
p’s and q’s in case they swear in front of Mac and you rip them apart. I know it all feels so hard, but you need to stop letting Zeke’s actions dictate your life. You’re not responsible for the man child. He’s not gonna settle down and become a decent human being just because you told him to, and you fretting over it won’t change a damn thing.”
I hate the hot tears that sting my eyes. I hate the way my heart races and makes me sick to my stomach. “You make it sound so easy, but it’s not. We can’t afford to make waves, Meg. We live our lives, wait our thousand days, and we hope he remains too stupid to fuck shit up for us.”
“It is easy!” she shoots back. “Zeke Douglas is just a stranger to you. He has nothing to do with you. Act that way! It’s not like I run around freaking out about what my ex is doing.”
“But Zeke is my son’s father. It’s different!”
“Since when?” She throws her hands up. “When was the last time he did anything that could be described as fatherly? Anything at all?”
I remain silent.
“Did he visit for Mac’s birthday?”
Silence.
“What about Easter? Last Christmas? Did he send a congratulatory gift for finishing middle school and starting high school? Does he even know Mac is in school at all?” When my silence goes on, she nods. “Exactly. He has absolutely no bearing on Mac’s life. That’s all you. You raised him to be this super awesome badass who helps grandmas in the street and shovels the sidewalk for any one of us if we ask. You slept with a dude a long ass time ago, and you got knocked up. Big friggin’ whoop. You’re not a child anymore, Katrina, and nobody is going to get mad if you take the sexy Eric for a spin.”
“I’m not taking anybody for a spin! Jesus. He has nothing to do with this shit with Zeke.”
“If he has nothing to do with it, then why are you always mad at him?”
“I’m not– I just– Ugh!” I step around her and take the door handle. “But no doubt the whole town heard me yell at you, so that’s awesome. I love when people know my business.”
“It’s not your business, remember?” She relentlessly follows me into the hall and snags her baby bag on the way past. “It’s Deke’s.”
“Zeke’s.”
“Whatever. It’s his business, his uselessness, his laziness, his sperm. His bad choices have nothing to do with you.”
I move through the hall and into the diner with plans to refill everyone’s coffee in apology for the free entertainment, but I come to a skidding stop when I find Meg’s baby in a red booth, standing on the table while he holds on to Eric’s hands and blows smiley spit bubbles. Mac sits in the next booth on his knees and watches over Eric’s shoulder.
My son’s double dimples pop as he plays with the baby, and my heart gives a yucky splat because the man I’ve unfairly dubbed my arch nemesis makes my heart ache while he plays with that baby.
Every good girl wants to bag a bad boy.
Every single mom’s ovaries quiver when she sees a good-looking man play with a cute baby.
I close my eyes and draw in a long breath, then I blow it out again and prepare to eat crow. Meg watches me with a teasing smirk and a puckered expression. “I swear, watching Marcus play with Chance like that always gets my engines revving.”
“Shut up.” I snatch up a fresh coffee pot and make my way around to each occupied table. I whisper my apologies, pat shoulders, accept smiles of sympathy, then I reach Eric’s table and barely control my legs before they run my stupid ass into the street.
I drag his empty mug closer without a single word, pour halfway, then push the mug away from Chance’s reach. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“I’m sorry for disrespecting you.” He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t stop playing with Chance, and for that, I’m thankful. “I don’t say things like that usually, but you got me a little wound up, so I snapped back.”
“Ditto, I guess. Mac, sit down.” I press a hand to my son’s face and push until he plops down with a grunt. “Actually, get up. I told you to go to school already.”
“Happy belated birthday, by the way.” Eric’s tone is so quiet, I have to almost lean in to catch his words. “I didn’t know that’s why you were heading out early. I hope you had a nice night.”
“I did.” I accept my son’s kiss as he slides out of his booth and swings his backpack onto his shoulders. Watching him walk away with his head bowed low but a smile on his face, I don’t turn back to Eric until the newly installed glass door swings closed and my son flashes a peace symbol as he walks away.
Marc and Meg’s baby son is almost a year old, looks like a round butterball of perfection, has luscious dark hair and bright hazel eyes. His gaze flips from me to Eric, back and forth, as he dribbles all over himself and giggles about it.
“We watched a movie and ate cake.”
“I like your new necklace.” And still, he doesn’t look at me. “A gift?”
Bringing a hand up, I finger the seven rings and nod. “Yes, from my son. Who’s still standing on the street watching us right now.”
I thrust my arm and point in the direction of school until he throws his head back on an “ugh!” and turns away.
“Hey, handsome.” Stepping forward and reminding me of her presence, Meg reaches out for her baby with a sly grin. “It’s time for me to go. Work to do, people to annoy. Ya know, busy busy busy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Call me later.” She turns to me and flashes a dirty grin. “I wanna gossip.”
“I’d rather not,” I reply dryly. Watching her lift Chance with a grunt, then hug the chunky baby to her side, I keep my trap shut as she smacks my ass and flashes a wink that says I should fuck Eric in this very booth. Sashaying the way only Meg can, she leaves Eric and I alone amid awkward silences and weird throat-clearing.
Wringing my hands, I give up trying to think of something to say, so I snatch up my coffee pot and turn.
“Wait.” He grabs my apron and yanks me to a stop. Dragging me back slowly, he watches every move I make. He’s a quiet man, deliberate in his movements, and thoughtful before he says or does something he’s not sure he wants to commit to. Except, perhaps, when I rile him up and he speaks of cobwebs in my vagina. Eric DeWhit has a tight grip on control… until he doesn’t.
When he pulls me back around and my thighs touch his table, he lets his eyes roam my body, warm my chest, and stop on my eyes. “I feel like we have a whole bunch of baggage despite the fact we barely know each other.”
“I think maybe I took my ex’s baggage and plonked it on your head.”
His lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “I think so too. It’s not really fair, but I have broad shoulders, so I’ll take it, then I’ll push it off again and prove I’m worthy. I’m not a deadbeat, Kat.” His eyes soften. “May I call you Kat?”
“No.” Lord, give me strength, I want to flirt with this man. I want to like him. “I’d rather you didn’t. My ex calls me Kat when he’s trying to be a condescending prick.”
Approval shines in his eyes because I’m finally giving him something other than sass. “Fair call. Katrina it is, with a side of beautiful every now and again when I’m feeling a little more verbose.” I feel the heat sneak into my cheeks, but he doesn’t mention it. “I’m not a deadbeat, okay? I’m not a user. I’m not unemployed. I’m not looking for a couch to crash on or a family to mooch off. I’m not looking to use you. I just like the burgers around here, and the waitress is so fucking beautiful, she makes my blood run hot. You don’t have to think the same of me. You don’t have to be interested, but if you are, now’s a good time for me to mention that I’m single and have no STDs.”
I choke out a small cough.
“I’m just a dude who likes pretty things. That’s all this has to be.”
“I’m sorry I said mean things about you.”
He rewards me with a handsome grin and pulls me closer so my knees touch his thigh. “You weren’t the first to fling shit at me. You won�
��t be the last. I don’t bruise easily, so you’re okay.”
“I’m sorry for implying you’re a shitty person because you’re old and not yet married.”
“I’m not old!” he snaps. “Jesus, you think I’m old?”
“I mean…” I nibble on my bottom lip and draw his eyes down. “You’re in that window is all I meant. Not old. But not twenty-four, either.”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
I do the quick math in my head. The algebra, even. “You were in third grade when I was born.”
His face wrinkles.
“High school when I was in kindergarten.”
“Ew.”
“College when I was in junior year.”
“Stop now.”
“I just turned thirty.”
“And I’m still in my thirties too, so stop with the age difference. I’m not old.”
“I’m sorry for yelling at you all the time. I was projecting.”
He chuckles. “That happens to me a lot. Like, seriously a lot. Do I have a neon sign on my forehead that welcomes man-hater speeches?”
“No.”
“Do I look approachable, like I might welcome a speech about my own kind?”
“No.”
“Do I have a sign taped to my back that says I enjoy taking on everyone else’s shit? I’m a good man, Katrina; I was careful all my life not to purposely hurt women, but now I’m getting everyone else’s spill off hate.”
“No.” Bravely, I drop a hand to his shoulder and squeeze – and it definitely doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m sorry we do that to you. It’s not fair.”
“You smell nice.”
“Huh?”
His eyes flare wide. “Huh?”
“What did you say?”
“What?”
“Mom! I forgot to pack lunch.”
I jump back as Mac bounds through the door with an air for the dramatic. Hot coffee splashes onto my shirt and apron, but I ignore the sting as my chuckling son helps himself to the pastry shelf and writes down what he takes so I can pay for it later.