Annoyed, I look at Jen with a crooked brow, but she simply waves me off. “C’mon, Lex, your panties have been in twist all day, and the way you were lookin’ at Ky told me I could be spending my Saturday night paying bail. As much fun as that’d be, I’m working ‘til one, and there’s half-sick boy waiting for me at home with a daddy who has no clue what he’s doing most of the time.”
She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, and shakes her head. I laugh at her frustration, but I understand it. Since we started working together and became friends four years ago, Jared, her boyfriend, has become a brother to me. But aside from playing ball and butchering meat, the man’s clueless.
“Tanie’s in town. She would have done it,” I tell her.
She pokes her tongue out at me. “Fine, but how about instead of punching your good-for-nothin’ ex and getting fired—and thrown in jail—you go fix the problem with your panties.”
“I have good reasons for the twisted panties, Jen.” She squints with that “really?” expression on her face. I sigh. “I do! I had a shitty day yesterday, I barely slept, got kicked out of my own bed by my damn dog, got yelled at for no reason by the most annoying woman in this town, have been on my feet for nine hours waiting on a bunch of stupid rednecks that think they’re somehow better than me, and, as the frosting on this ass-cake, I’m stuck serving those dickheads. I can’t take them anymore, Jen. I want to set my vagina on fire every time I remember that they’ve been near it.”
“Well, at least you didn’t make it four and sleep with Gary, otherwise your vagina would be on fire, and you’d never forget them. I hear he has the gift that keeps on givin’.”
I cock a brow.
She sighs animatedly. “Herpes, you know? That gift.”
“Ew! Thanks for the visual.”
Giggling, she grabs the hem of her dress and makes a little curtsy. “I’ll be here all night.” Then, her lips curl up in an apologetic smile. “Fine, you get a twisted undies pass, though you should keep your voice down if you want them rednecks to keep tipping you.” Her chestnut ponytail bounces, and she suppresses chuckle. “But still . . . that ain’t the only problem with your panties, sweetie.”
Rookie starts to place my burger order over the small counter under the window, and I focus on relocating all of the items to my tray. I know where this going and I don’t like it, but still, I ask, “And what other problem do they have?”
She cocks a brow. “Well, they have the worst problem of all. They haven’t been removed by a man in a very long time.” Like I knew I would, I regret asking. The feeling increases when I see Rookie looking at me with a cheeky smile that is definitely in the offering-to-help territory. I’m about to tell him to take a hike, when Jen says, “Less dreaming, more burgers.”
I fight a laugh, and turn to stare at her beaming face. I want to fight her accusation, but there’s no point. It really has been forever, and we both know it. I lift my shoulders in defeat, and continue to place the plates on my tray.
She steals a fry from the basket on my tray and stuffs it in her mouth. “Glad you agree, but as I said . . . you could fix that problem, and something tells me I just sat the man for the job at booth nine.”
I steal a glance toward her, and pull my brows together. “Explain.”
“Well . . . first of all, you can’t say no to him. That man could take my panties off if he wanted to, and I wouldn’t object. Quite honestly, I’m pretty sure Jared would understand that you don’t just say no to a guy who looks like that.” I laugh, but she ignores me and continues, “Besides, he’s asking for you.”
The moment she says that, a cold chill runs down my spine. Painstakingly slowly, I turn my head toward goddamned booth nine.
The first thing I see is a head of shaggy blond hair. My stomach begins its metaphorical descent, increasing in weight and speed with each familiar feature. A pair of deep blue eyes, and a face so frustratingly gorgeous comes into focus. I’m not fooled by his angelic looks, though. I know the evil that resides in that tall, muscular body. And in that moment, when my already bad day takes a sharp turn toward insufferable, all I can think is, What the motherfucking fuck?
Jen’s head is bouncing back and forth between looking expectantly at me and swooning at him, but I don’t say a word to her. I’m rendered speechless by anger. I’m angry that he’s here, and that my fucking knees are, once more, going weak.
I shove the tray into Jen’s arms, and keep my eyes fixed on him as I dart toward the stupid booth number nine. Curious townsfolk are all turning to look at me, I can feel it, but I don’t care. Not this time. The truth of the matter is that I’m not thinking straight, which makes not giving a fuck easy.
In seconds, I come to a stop right in front of him, at the very spot where I told him off yesterday. He looks at me, and his lips—those perfect lips—turn into a smile that would have made my twisted panties drop to the floor if they weren’t bolted to my genitals by undiluted rage. I defy all rules of heterosexuality, in relation to the female populace, by not replying to that smile. Instead, I place my hands on the edges of the table—the exact spot where I found his outrageous and offensive tip.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand.
His smile drops. He tucks his hair behind his ear, and takes a deep breath. He seems completely thrown off his game, which gives me a slight sense of victory.
“It’s a diner. I’m hungry,” he says, his tone somewhere between annoyed and hopeful. Hopeful about what, I don’t know. Not sure I care to find out, either.
“There are other restaurants in town. I don’t know what you want with me, but I’m in no mood to take your shit today.”
He blinks a few times, and it brings me some pride to know I just took him by complete surprise. My lips turn up slowly in a discreet smile.
Recomposing his expression, he clears his throat. “I asked for you because I want to talk to you. Nicely.”
I choke on a humorless laugh and shake my head. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”
He brings a hand up to rub his forehead, and it looks like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. Then he closes his eyes, nostrils flaring as he takes several deep breaths. I think about what Jen said regarding him and her panties, which leads to thoughts of how easily I would have, no doubt, let him into mine if our first meeting had been different. The thought annoys and disgusts me.
“Well, call me when you decide what you want. I have to work.” I turn around, but a hand grabs my arm in a solid yet gentle grasp.
“Will you please stop walking away? You did that yesterday and—”
My blood boils over his assumption that he can just touch me, yet there’s no denying that a shock wave travels up from my wrist, where his long fingers are defiantly clasped around, to the middle of my chest. It sets my heart into a frenzy.
Flexing my jaw, I turn my body and direct a glare at the offending hand. “Let go of my arm.”
Immediately, his hand drops. He stares at me, wide eyed. It feels like all of the air inside the diner has vanished, and I’m attempting the impossible task of breathing inside a vacuum chamber.
With closed eyes, I battle to keep my composure. I know I should walk away before he can see how affected I am, but I can’t. It’s as if my feet are glued to the floor, and I hate it. I hate that I met him yesterday, and that he’s here today. But above that, I hate that my heart is going thump-thump-thump really fast.
“I’m sorry for grabbing you like that. It was inappropriate,” he says. I open my eyes just in time to see him combing a hand through his hair. “But I need five minutes of your time.” The emphasis he puts in the word need is strange, and disconcerting, and kind of hot.
I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to say. A part of me, the one that has endured two days of bad luck and an awful mood, wants to yell profanities at him and send him on his way. But then there’s the “real Lexie” part, the stupid one that thinks everyone deserves a chance to
be heard. Loathing that part of me, I stare him in the eyes and let him interpret my silence in whatever way he wants.
He takes it as encouragement to continue speaking, so I listen. “I know I was a jerk to you yesterday. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s driving me crazy. I can’t sleep. God knows I can’t leave this town feeling as guilty as I feel for the shit I said. And honestly, I hate knowing how much better of a person you are than me. It’s maddening. So just say you’ll forgive me, and we can both go on with our lives and forget this shit ever happened.”
It takes me a few seconds to process his words. In fact, it takes a lot of seconds. With each one that passes, my previous anger escalates higher and higher until I can feel my cheeks burning, and my head pounding faster. At that point, I no longer care about the gossipers listening behind me. I no longer care that I’m working, and that he’s a patron. All I can think about is the anger coursing through me.
I blurt out the first thing that pops into my mind. “What the fuck was that?”
His brows pull together, and I almost feel sorry for how clueless this guy is. He looks genuinely confused. But then he opens his trap again, and I get over it.
“It was an apology. I feel bad for taking my frustration out on you yesterday, so I came back for you to forgive me.”
We stare at each other for a moment. My body still tingles with anger, but the feeling is lessening. I can see he’s waiting for a reply, and I try to think of something, anything, but for the life of me I can’t.
I shake my head and take a step away from the table. “I have to go.”
“Lexie,” he calls after me, but I don’t care. I walk toward the corridor leading to the back room.
He calls me again, his tone more forceful this time, demanding, but I don’t acknowledge him. I just can’t. Through my peripheral, I see him getting up from his seat and walking after me. It makes me even angrier.
“Do you mind?” I ask him once we both reach the corridor. “My shift is over, and I have to go. I’ll send a waitress to your table.”
He releases an aggravated breath. “I don’t want another waitress. I don’t even want food. Just say you’ll forgive me,” he demands.
Annoyed out of my mind, I look him smack in the eyes. Blood rises up my neck and fills cheeks for the millionth time since he entered The Jukebox, but I’m determined not to let that stop me.
“Look . . .” I trail off, because I don’t know his name. “You are rude, inconsiderate, annoying, conceited and you managed to fuck up two of my days, which is inexcusable. Despite all of that, and against my better judgment, I heard what you had to say. But that was a shitty-ass apology.”
His face turns a deep red, with anger no doubt. His eyes seem like they’re going to pop out of their sockets, but I don’t let that stop me. He’s started it, and for the love of God and fried okra, I’m going to finish it. His mouth opens, and I raise an open palm to let him know I’m not finished. That hand soon turns into a pointed index finger.
“You say you want forgiveness, but your entire speech was about you. How you need me to forgive you. How you can’t sleep. How you can’t leave this town. You, you, you. So I might as well add selfish to the list of things you are, because we both know that I was the one offended here, and never once did you ask if I got upset. Not once did you ask if I lost sleep. Not once did you ask if you could do anything to make me feel better about your mistake. All you want is for me to give you peace of mind so you can go back to your playboy life, and as much as you may not believe it, I have better things to do than to care about what you need.”
I’m out of breath after blurting out all of that so quickly. He looks like someone who just got bitch-slapped, which, in a way, he was. Once again, neither of us says anything. We just stare at each other for a while. A while that is so long it allows me to see a bunch of emotions flash in his dark blue eyes, until the only one remaining is sadness. For a moment it tugs at my soft, idiotic heart, but I don’t let it take hold of me. I can’t.
A couple of minutes go by before he nods, takes a deep breath, and walks away from me, all in complete silence. I watch him as he crosses the diner to the front door. When he reaches it, he stops and glances my way for a second, and then he’s gone.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I slide down to the floor, close my eyes, and let my head fall back to the wall behind me. I’m so angry I could cry and that’s the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction—even though he’ll never know—and I don’t want to give those stupid prying idiots more reason to talk.
There, alone with my thoughts, I remain for a while, until a gentle hand touches my shoulder. The scent of cherry blossoms, so characteristic of Jen, fills my nose a second before her motherly voice reaches my ear. “I say that went as well as blind ol’ Mr. Mills going hunting.”
And that’s one of the reasons I love Jen, she always makes me laugh, even when I don’t feel like it. I open my eyes and look at her face. “I think it went worse.”
“That sucks.” She makes a funny face and sits down beside me. “I take it you knew him before I sent him to that booth?” I nod. “Does he have anything to do with your bad mood?” I nod again. She sighs. “Okay . . . What you wanna do now?”
“Jump off a cliff.”
She slams her shoulder against mine. “Come on . . . you’re Lexington Amelia Fucking Blake. You never want jump off a cliff because of a boy.”
“He’s a really mean boy.”
She shrugs. “All the more reason not to waste your only cliff jumping shot on him. How about we take advantage that this place is about to become a bar and just get you hammered instead?”
I steal a glance her way, smile and nod. “That sounds good. I’ll call Tanie.”
“All right. I’ll save you a place at the bar, and put in a double order of fries.” She kisses the top of my head, stands, and extends her hand out to help me up.
As soon as I’m on my feet, she folds me into a tight hug and runs a hand over my back a few times. “I’m sorry I let him in here,” she whispers.
“You didn’t know.”
She smiles again and plants a kiss on my cheek. “I’m still sorry. Now go get Montana, and I’ll get the margaritas.”
“Okay, Momma.”
She winks and goes back to the front of the house, while I go get my phone and try to make this shitty night better.
Rude . . . Inconsiderate . . . Annoying . . . Conceited.
You, you, you.
Selfish.
Fuck!
“Pour me another,” I tell the bartender.
He gives me that “Don’t you think you’ve had too many?” look I’m all too familiar with. More often than not the look is well deserved, and the buzzing in my head tells me today is one of those nights. But if I’ve learned anything at all in the past few hours it is that giving a shit is pointless. Trying to be better is pointless. I am who I am. There’s no reason to try to be anything different. I just have to accept myself, the way I always have, and make the best out of my life. And the way I seem to do it best is the Jack Daniels way.
I glare at the know-it-all in a bowtie and repeat, “Pour me another.” There’s a sense of pride in the fact that I didn’t add a please or thank you. There’s even more in seeing him close his mouth, reach for the bottle, and pour a double shot in a new tumbler.
“Your life, man.” He retrieves the money I’ve placed in front of him, shrugs, and moves his attention to another customer.
Despite my already established buzz, my brain just won’t stop thinking about those words and the woman who said them. It’s fucking irritating. Once again, I’m stuck in that place of wanting to knock my head on the table and scream. This time, however, the feeling is ten times stronger than it was yesterday, which is bizarre, because I never thought anything would make me more desperate, angry and hopeless than being robbed of my life.
But Lexie does.
Motherfucking goddamn
ed shit!
There’s this part of me that wants to believe that these feelings are related to having those awful things said to me by a fucking waitress. The rest of me, however, knows that if it had been any other waitress—or person, for that matter—I would’ve just flipped her off and been done with it. But for some bizarre reason, I care what Lexie thinks of me, and I can’t stop. I hate that I continue to give a shit over her seeing those things—the rude, inconsiderate, annoying, conceited and selfish nature that define me—clearly enough to call me out on them.
To make things worse, I’m also flat out angry that she got me so riled up I drove twenty minutes so I could get away from being in the same town as her, but still I couldn’t get myself to pack my shit and be done with Jolene, Alabama. And most of all, I hate that even in a different city, and with a buzz, she’s still occupying my every thought.
I take the tumbler in my hand, and swirl the amber liquid inside. With a deep breath, I raise the glass to my lips and down it in one go. I don’t even taste it; I just let it slide down my throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. And then my buzz goes up one degree, succumbing me into Head Spinning Land, and all thoughts of a little blond, smart-mouthed woman who can read me like a book are whisked away.
The delicious numbness takes hold of me, giving me a few precious moments of peace that are interrupted by a soft voice asking if the seat beside me is empty.
I turn my head toward the source. It takes a couple of seconds for my eyes to focus, but then I see long, curly blond hair, gray eyes, pink lips, a white tank top with the words Fun Times written across a vast chest, and a denim skirt short enough to make me interested.
And just like that, all my worries are replaced by a routine that is as natural to me as breathing.
“It’s not anymore,” I tell her with a smirk on my lips.
Most guys would start off with a smile, but not me. Smiles mean “I’m a good guy, and one day you may take me home to meet Grandma,” both of which are absolutely false. But a smirk says, “I’m bad, but this will be so good you’ll forget you even have a grandma,” which is a very accurate assessment of my intentions. I also pull out her chair for her, which, in most circumstances, would place me in “good guy” territory, but in this instance it’s only to assure the woman that despite my devilish side, I can be attentive.
The Reason I Stay Page 4