Wreck Me

by J. L. Mac

I peek at my mother’s watch on my wrist and smile. I can sneak an early lunch break. Sutton won’t know and even if he did he would likely not give a shit. Besides, what’s he going to do? Fire me?

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  The strange man smiles and it sets my insides into a feeding frenzy of sorts. I can just imagine those lips of his pressed against my skin. I haven’t had a man in weeks and this man is going to be the perfect distraction to the anniversary of the accident and my looming unemployment. Yeah, I think I’ll have him tonight. We set out down the side walk to the café just down the block. I thank God that it isn’t too hot out yet. June in Vegas is hellish. We stroll casually and we alternate taking quizzical glances at each other. I take in the full view of him.

  He wears those dress slacks like they were made for him. His dress shirt is rolled up his forearms, the top buttons are undone and he is without a tie. I bet he hates wearing those stuffy clothes simply based on how casual he has made them. He is easily six feet tall, maybe more. His hair is slightly long on top but short on the sides and is the darkest of brown. It’s edging closer to black but not quite. He has a short, perfectly groomed beard across his angular jaw that I am dying to feel against my cheek. His eyes glow in the sunlight like amber. His lips look soft and inviting and tilt up on just one side when he smiles. I can only imagine what is hidden beneath his clothes. I intend on finding out later.

  He starts up the small talk as we take our coffee to a small bistro table.

  “So, you work at that book store alone?”

  I give my coffee swirl and set the wooden stirrer aside. I look up at the man across from me. God he is gorgeous. I can’t wait until tonight. I cut to the chase and go in for the kill.

  “Do you want to hang out tonight?”

  His brows rocket up his forehead and I swear they met his hairline for a count.

  “Isn’t that my line?”

  I shrug.

  “I don’t know, is it?”

  He smiles back at me and his pearly whites make me melt for him.

  “It is. What time suits you?”

  He is absentmindedly stirring his coffee in a slow constant rhythm and I watch the flick and swish of his wrist. I wonder if he moves that fluidly in bed.

  “Sutton, the store owner is coming in after lunch so that I can leave. I have somewhere to be later, but I will be free afterward. Want to meet me in front of the store around six?”

  “Where do you have to be?”

  Wow he is pretty forward isn’t he? It’s no damn business of his, but I will teach him a quick lesson in foot-in-mouth-itis. It’s a lesson I love handing out to people who pry.

  “I’m going to the cemetery to visit my dead family,” I say flatly.

  Ha! There it is. Concern has filled his amber colored eyes.

  “I apolog-”

  This should be good. I hold up my hand to stop him. I have zero interest in apologies. They peeve me, in fact. They are almost never sincere. It‘s a part of the human condition and it is one that I have never understood. What the hell is with the need to apologize? This man doesn’t possibly feel sorry for my tragic scenario. I have no doubt that he feels sorry, but it isn’t for me. It is for the utter embarrassment that he feels for opening his mouth. He is sorry for himself not for me.

  “Don’t. Don’t apologize.”

  He snaps his lips shut and looks confused. It’s actually a tad endearing. Hmm, that’s an odd thing to feel. I kind of feel bad for tossing him under the bus. I actually feel a bit bitchy. This is so out of character for me. Well, what the hell do I say now? I didn’t anticipate feeling like an asshole.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I just don’t care for apologies. They’re never sincere. I can vouch for this since I have the urge at this very moment to say I am sorry for being so rude. But honestly, my impulse to apologize is only because I feel uncomfortable with the guilt I feel and my stupid human brain associates an apology with mollifying my own discomfort. Apologies are just a reminder of how selfish people are.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. I chance a quick glance up at Damon and his eyes are glued to me.

  “That is the most honest thing I think I have ever heard.”

  “I have to get back to the store. I’ll meet you there at six?”

  I need to get away from this guy and forget about my own human conditions for the time being.

  “Tonight at six,” he affirms.

  “Okay. Before I go…”

  I grab a napkin and dig a pen out of my bag.

  “Here is my number and email address in case you want to get in touch with me.”

  I hand him the napkin and pause for a moment while he surveys the chicken scratch.

  “jojo.geroux?”

  He looks confused. So I explain.

  “Josephine Geroux. That’s my name. jo.geroux wasn’t available so I went with jojo.geroux.”

  He just looks at me with the most peculiar look on his face and that deep feeling of familiarity surfaces again.

  “See you tonight, Damon.”

  His focus remains on the stupid napkin in his hand as he mumbles his goodbyes.

  “Bye, Jo.”

  I stand and turn in my strappy sandals. I point my frustrated self in the direction of the store and allow my jean clad legs to carry me back to work as fast as they can.

  I was glad that my day flew by, but now that I see my parent’s headstones coming into view I am beginning to wish my day had crawled. The lump in my throat is growing with each step nearer to their final resting place. I fucking hate coming here. I only visit them once a year, on the anniversary of the accident. I can scrap in the streets, I can throw a perfect left hook and when I had it I could turn five bucks into fifty in no time throwing dice in the alley. But damn, I can’t get my shit together enough to visit my dead parents more than once a year. I am a lousy daughter for it, but I tell myself that maybe they would understand my serious lack of intestinal fortitude when it comes to visiting their graves. I damn sure hope they understand wherever they are. I would like to think that they are in heaven, but I just don’t know. I have no way to know if it even exists and the priest at the mission use to say I had to have faith that God and heaven are real. The idea of having faith in anything to a homeless teenager is just asinine.

  “Hi,” I mumble as I kneel before the two stones that are the only things other than myself to attest to the existence of two human beings. This is all that’s left of them. Two highly expensive grave markers that took a year’s worth of savings for me to finally buy and of course me; the product of their love. That’s it. Nothing more. It claws at my hardened heart to know that my Maman and Papa are reduced to this; two stones and a lousy daughter who never visits. I shake my head and purse my lips. My head seems to voluntarily hang in shame.

  “I’m sorry,” I croak out through welling tears. “I’m so sorry.” My shoulders rock and I let the tears fall unabashed. “I miss you. Oh, I miss you both so much it hurts to breathe. If I could, I would give all I have to bring you back.” Like a real lady, I use the hem of my shirt to wipe at my sodden nose and cheeks. It really makes no difference. The tears still roll freely down my face to gather at the point of my chin before dripping to my lap. I don’t give a shit. I’m hurting and I can’t stop it. I miss them so damn bad some days it takes every ounce of strength to even exist.

  Some days the despair I feel threatens to drown me and that is a very dangerous kind of despair for a person to muddle through. It’s that kind of despair that makes people do stupid things just to gain a measure of relief from their suffering. I am ashamed to admit that I have contemplated living versus ending it all. I know it’s the selfish cowardly thing to do, but the only fucking reason I have refrained from ending my shit life is because I would never want to disappoint my parents. I don’t know if they can see or hear me, but I won’t risk it.

  They didn’t choose the way things ended up. The decision was made for them when that car veered into
our lane. I could never disgrace them by pissing on the life they gave me. I am all that remains of them besides these two stones and I just can’t end them by ending myself. I brush away the dead and dried grass that has scattered at the base of their markers. I trace my finger tips over the lettering on the heavily engraved stones. First his stone then hers. I bought them once I had saved enough money working at the store. I was eighteen years old and nine years late, but my parents finally got the headstones they deserved instead of the cheap plaque they had before. Most eighteen year old girls save for cars or an apartment of their own. I scrounged to buy my parents decent grave markers. I didn’t give a shit that I ate next to nothing for that year while I stashed every penny I could. Knowing what my money was going towards was sustenance enough.

  A growling stomach can be remedied, an ailing broken heart cannot. I wish that somehow there was something you could feed a broken heart to pacify it. Something I could do or have that would somehow lessen or alleviate the constant ache in my chest. I wondered and hoped for such a remedy, but the fact is it does not exist. If it did, I would have already combed the planet for it. I would have sought it out. I would do anything to cure the void in me. So far, the only thing that I find helps my emptiness is frequent, amazing sex. I guess I am one of those text book examples of how a young woman uses sex and promiscuity to distract from her shitty upbringing. I could care less. The sex is good and for a short period of time I forget everything.

  “It doesn’t feel any better. If anything it hurts more. I wish I had something great to talk about, but I don’t. I am still at the store. I don’t know how much longer though. We may end up closing. I don’t want to lose my job. It’s all I have felt connected to since the accident.” Tears build, spill over, and flow a little quicker with my talk of another loss. I can’t stand the idea of not working at the store. It would just add to my sorrow. My job is all I have. It is all that I look forward to on a daily basis. I am content there. I spent countless hours in the library when I was on the streets and my love and appreciation for the written word runs deep. The thought of losing my beloved job makes me want to crumble under the weight of my disappointment.

  People say time heals all. I say to those people they are full of shit. Most people who are ignorant enough to say something so dumb have nothing to base that bullshit cliché off of. There is no foundation of loss from which they draw that conclusion. I would not dare tell someone who is grieving that time will heal them. I would be honest and say that time does nothing more than fade the good memories while building the void in your heart. The loss never dulls. I would tell someone grieving that the best they can hope for is that they can find something productive to do that will take the edge off. Any ambition of healing or any other hearts, rainbows and lollipops bullshit is just that; bullshit. When you suffer a loss so tremendous it’s like the sun goes down and never rises again. It sets and leaves you in a perpetual state of twilight. I sniffle and wipe the tears away. “I love you both. Until next year.” I stroke the pads of my fingers across their engraved names once more then pull myself to stand. I walk towards my car and thoughts of Damon Cole flood my mind. I more than want him now. I need him. I need to drown my grief in a sea of lust and Damon is the man for the job.

  I don’t even know why the hell I bother with fixing my hair. I plan on screwing it all up just as quick as I can get Damon alone. That man is gorgeous and I need the distraction that I am sure he is capable of providing. That may make me a whore in some people’s opinion but to hell with them. Truth is those same assholes who keep up the societal double standard are the people who envy me. They envy my nerve and lack of concern for bullshit stereotypes. All those ridiculous ideas of male promiscuity versus female whorishness carry no weight with me. I say kiss my ass to that. In my opinion, if a woman is being careful and discrete, then who cares how many partners she chooses to take to bed? It should not matter. Jim, Jack, Bill, Bob, and Will can bang the bottom out of one-hundred women each and no one gives a shit about that, but holy hot pants! If I admit to having bedded even a fraction of that, I get shunned as a dirty whore when in fact, I am clean. I am careful. I choose my partners wisely. I am observant and prepared. It’s my body. I will do with it what I choose.

  I smooth my wavy brown hair and toss it over my shoulder to hang down my back. I grab my cosmetic bag and dig out the goods. My dark green eyes always look best when I apply some makeup. I line my lids, dust on some shadow, coat my lashes with mascara and pop my lips after smearing on my tinted gloss. “Alright Jo, time to go get your fill of Damon Cole,” I say to my reflection in my tiny bathroom mirror. I grab my purse and walk with initiative to get to my car and on my way to the store. I plop into the driver’s seat of my shitty four-banger to make the ten minute drive.

  The moment I turn the corner and the shop comes into view, so does Damon. He is standing out front of the store looking more handsome than I could have imagined. His relaxed fit jeans looked faded and all vintage. That charcoal gray button down is snug across his chest and shoulders. My palms itch to be pressed flush against the fabric. I slip the shifter into park and kill the engine. I step out of my car and smooth my denim skirt then adjust my cotton knit top. I have on my favorite wedge sandals and my best perfume. I took extra care preparing for my evening with Damon. He turns my direction and his eyes catch mine. His attention has honed in on me as I approach. I feel exposed and slightly less confident than just a moment ago. That is fucking odd. There is nothing special about this guy. He is a man. He is a hot guy who I intend on thoroughly banging tonight. His gaze has yet to leave mine and the air around us suddenly feels leaden and thick.

  “Hey.”

  “You’re beautiful.” His voice sounds …promising, and I nearly sigh when I hear the lust drip from each syllable. I feel relieved that he wants me as much as I want him. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to decipher the tension between us as sexual. It is purely animalistic attraction and it is involuntary.

  “Thank you. What did you have planned for us?” I ask feeling hopeful that it will be short and include me going to his place afterward. He squints his eyes slightly and I can tell that he seems to be thinking.

  “I had planned on asking you what you would like to do.” He casually slips one hand into his pocket and I see a fancy ass Rolex clinging to his wrist like some gold digger bait. I see. He is seasoned with this whole thing. No need to pussy-foot around. Go in for the kill. Shoot from the hip. Ask for what you want.

  “Can you cook?”

  “No not really.” His admission leaves him appearing a little embarrassed and damn if it isn’t extremely cute seeing this tall, dark and handsome man looking a little flushed. His warm amber eyes go a little askew and for the first time since we saw each other our gaze has broken. I feel the need to solidify our plans for the evening.

  “That’s okay. I love to cook. If you are hungry I’ll make you dinner, but it will have to be at your place. Mine is the crappiest apartment in this city.” His eyes land back on me and his confidence has won out over the fleeting moment of self-doubt. A small smile eases across his mouth and his lips slant upward on one side. His honey-colored eyes are winning him all kinds of points with that flirtatious light glinting in them. Damn I want to put my mouth on him. On every single inch of him. I can feel heat growing in my cheeks and I know it’s time to get this show on the road. “So…what do you say? Want me to wow you with my culinary skills or what?” I say with a coaxing smile.

  “I definitely want you to wow me, Jo. My car is this way.” Oh for fuck sake. This man is going to make sure I am begging for him. I can see it now. He knows what he has working in his favor and he is not afraid of showing it.

  “No need. I will follow you. Is your kitchen stocked?” I flip my keys once around my index finger and keep right on drinking in the sight in front of me. He still has one hand shoved into a pocket while the other dangles freely at his side. He nods his head in understanding.

  “Okay
, I get it. You don’t know me really. But I promise, I’ll make sure you’re okay.” Something weird stirs within my subconscious. Something familiar and frightening. My stomach turns sour in an instant and I feel like I should…do something. I don’t know what the hell it is, but shit this is a strange feeling. He must notice my discomfort because he steps forward and his hand is resting on my upper arm.

  “Hey, are you okay? Maybe you should let me drive. I promise to bring you back to your car the minute you tell me. Or, I can have it delivered to my place. My assistant won’t mind. It’s why I pay him well.”

  “Uh, yeah I’m fine. An assistant? He would bring my car, like right now?” I arch an eyebrow in disbelief and he smiles and nods again. His hand leaves my upper arm and he steps to my side. His hand takes up new residence at the small of my back and he sets us into a comfortable pace towards what I assume is his…pickup truck? He is pointing a key fob at a pickup truck of all things. This thing is lifted a bit so getting into the passenger seat in my short denim skirt should be interesting.

  “In you go.” In an instant his hands are at my waist and he lifts me with ease to place me into the passenger seat. I can’t seem to form words. I’m fumbling around in my weary head for an answer. Maybe his car is being fixed. Maybe he’s a serial killer and uses a pickup truck to transport bodies to the desert. Maybe he just likes trucks. Loads of men like trucks. It’s the American man’s vehicle of choice.

  “Keys?” He holds out his hand to me while his other lifts his cell phone to his ear. I hand him my keys and listen to him speak. “Brian, yeah, I’ll be back at my place in a few with my date, I need you to get a set of car keys with an address from security downstairs. Then go pick up the car. It’s pale yello-, well… it’s also got a red door, and a gray hood. You know what? I will leave the plate number with the keys, go find the car and bring it to my place. Yeah, thanks.” I can’t help but laugh at his description of my crappy little car that looks more like a Franken-car than anything else.