I keep my back to her and pull on some sweats. When I turn around, though, she is looking at me.
“Shit, you were supposed to be asleep.”
“I’m asleep,” she says with a hard swallow.
“You need a drink?”
“If you don’t mind, that would be great.”
I take my time getting a glass of water and a couple Tylenol. She is gonna need them. Hell, I take two myself, and I didn’t even have a drink tonight.
When I walk in the room, she is sitting up with Floyd lying next to her. I stop and watch her pet my dog. Floyd isn’t a bitch and doesn’t bite, but she never even gets up on Jagger’s bed when he is home.
Dammit, Floyd, I think, don’t you get sucked in, too.
She looks up at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it tonight,” I say, walking across the room and handing her the water and pills. “Take them. You’re gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”
She looks down at the shirt then up at me with questions dancing in her eyes.
“You threw up on it.”
She takes the pills, swallows them down, and then nods. “Right.”
“Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Hendrix, I need this job,” she whispers, looking at the glass in her hand.
“We’ll figure something out.” I turn to leave. “Come on, Floyd.”
“I can call a cab,” Livi says, stopping me in my tracks.
“Nah, you’re fine here. Get some sleep.” I turn the light off on my way out then walk down the stairs to my spare room that Morrison uses for a crash pad when he’s in town.
This is gonna be one long night with very little sleep, filled with thoughts of what to do with the snorter in my bed.
Chapter Ten
~Olivia~
There is a pounding sound around me. Why is someone knocking at my door? I don’t ever have visitors. I groan. Why won’t it stop? If I lie here quietly, they will go away. Besides, my eyelids are too heavy to open. I need to go back to sleep, and whoever is at my door can come back later.
Suddenly, this doesn’t feel right. I pat the bed around me and crack one eye open. The light from the window shines brightly, too brightly, and then mind slowly starts to catch up.
The pounding isn’t my door. No, everything around me is quiet, possibly too quiet. The pounding is the second hangover of my life barreling down on me.
I reach up and lay my arm over my eyes. What a mess.
I had sex in a closet with a stranger. I left him standing there with no intention of looking back. What I gained from it was empowerment. Now, I feel like I took it from the one guy who has truly ever been nice to me. He must think I am a slut. I wonder if he thinks I knew it was him. I wonder if he thinks I’m using him. He gave me a job that paid me just enough tips to keep my water turned on and then he fixed my car. What did I do? Nothing.
My car.
Oh my, he fixed my car. He made it better than it has ever been since I bought it from my mom when I was seventeen. Clean, the car was so clean … until I puked in it.
Embarrassment washes over me. I am a complete mess. My life is a complete mess. My car is a hot mess.
Before I can think about it further, the sound of padding paws grabs my attention. I look over the edge of the bed to find a Pit Bull looking at me.
Leaning over, I pet the dog as it sits beside me, resting its head on the bed with the little nub of its tail thumping against the floor as it soaks up my attention.
Could I hide in here all day with his dog? No. Eventually, I am going to have to face Hendrix. What am I going to say, though? What can I possibly say?
“Floyd, get down here, bitch,” Hendrix calls out, and the dog’s ears come up before it takes off to find its master.
So much for the hope I could sneak out while Hendrix still slept.
The throbbing in my head does not dissipate as I try to figure out what to do next. Why did I drink so much last night?
Mortification, that’s why.
The minute Jagger flung my panties onto the bar, I would have done anything to hide from reality.
Sitting up, I groan before glancing around me and finding the clock. Then, I proceed to freak out.
Ten a.m!
Ten in the morning.
Two hours past eight a.m. Two hours past my scheduled arrival at the hospital. Two hours late for my job. Two hours late for my career. No call, no show. I am thoroughly screwed. Not only will I possibly lose my regular job, but I am pretty sure, after knowing I am the girl from the closet, Hendrix will fire me, too.
Jobless means soon to be homeless.
My feet hit the cool, wood floor, and I immediately search for my phone, my clothes, my-brain, and they’re just not here. None of those things are here. My heart pounds, keeping nearly the same rhythm as my head. I am sick, literally sick, to my stomach.
I run to what I assume is the bathroom and make it just in the nick of time. I am instantly hunched over the toilet, throwing up again, though only once, thank God.
I decide to take a quick shower. I feel awful, and I’m already late for work and probably completely screwed. If there is any hope at all that I can keep my job at the hospital, I have to walk in without smelling like, like…
I throw up again, and with it, comes tears.
I flush the toilet and strip off my clothes. I am a wreck, a freaking wreck. I just need to get out of here, rewind the past twenty four hours, and move on.
Move on? Fat chance. I am literally trapped in a bathroom, physically and emotionally, by fear. This is crazy, and I can’t believe I allowed myself to put my guard down. I thought that night would make me a stronger person. I thought that night would help me move forward from the events of my past. Oh God, I can’t afford to put my guard down again.
After I shower, I brush my teeth with my finger, and then walk back into the bedroom where I grab a pair of sweat pants out of a clothes basket and a T-shirt, sniffing them to make sure they’re clean.
I look in the mirror, roll my head and shoulders, and reach back to rub my inspirational panties, but there are none. As a result, I dig deep into my emotional bag of tricks and grab for strength. The panties have been working for years now, but in times like this—panty-less and needing strength—I grab onto whatever dusty bit of strength I can.
The Queen B. Yes, Beyonce. My song of choice, “Run the World.”
Who runs this mother? I run this mother. I am strong. I can face this. I have faced worse. I run my world. I run my world. I run this mother.
With Queen B’s words playing in my head, I walk out of the room with all the fake confidence I can muster up. I walk down the stairs, ready to face him—Broody Caldwell, the man I allowed to bang me in the closet, the one who gave me the best sex of my life then gave me a job when I was about to get my water cut off, the guy who fixed up my car and helped me more than any other person ever had—and demand … Oh, pickles, could I demand anything of him? Nope. No, I couldn’t. Regardless, the inner Queen B is here, and I know she can take this on.
I get to the bottom of the stairs and the dog comes to my side. Broody Caldwell is in the kitchen, no shirt, sweat glistening on his tattooed skin, and ‘Caldwell’ is literally staring me in the face with the tattoo on his back. “Call me Caldwell,” runs through my head as I watch his head bop slightly to whatever music he has playing in his ear buds. He is grabbing peanut butter out of his cupboard, clearly enjoying his moment. Truth be told, I am enjoying the view.
I have never loved tattoos, but dear God, his are beautiful.
He pushes the bread down in his toaster, and then his fingers strum on the counter to the beat playing in his ears. I take a step closer, trying to figure out what song it is, but then the dog barks, causing him to turn quickly.
His phone crashes to the ground, pulling his ear buds free, which allows the song to blast through the apartment.
“Sorry to interrupt.” I am being strong h
ere, because I am running this mother, I remind myself before continuing, “I would like to discuss a few things with you; however, I am late for work.”
He crosses his arms, his biceps flexing and distracting me a bit. I watch as his eyes look me up and down.
“Mr. Caldwell, I—”
“Hendrix,” he corrects me, his voice steady.
“In order to keep this professional..,” I continue, reaching behind me to give my behind a rub. He looks at me like he is trying to figure me out as I remember I have no inspiration at the moment, but the Queen B has given me permission to run this mother, so I am quickly back and focused. “I may be in jeopardy of losing my job at the hospital, so I ask that you please not hold it against me that I let myself act outlandishly by allowing you to make love to me in a closet.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks confused.
My face immediately burns, and Queen B, well, she runs away to hide. I clear my throat, trying to continue leading this conversation in the direction I need it to go—panty-less and alone.
“It was—”
“Look, Livi, we fucked in a closet. We’re two adults.” I can tell he is fighting not to smirk. “Consent was fucking given and received with a standing ovation, a couple, if memory serves me right.”
“No need to be crude,” I say, maintaining eye contact.
“Nothing crude about fucking, and I can assure you that’s what it was. There was no love making going on in that closet.”
“I’d like to move past it.”
He studies me for a moment. “I’m not sure—”
“I won’t take no for an answer.” When I see my keys on the counter, Queen B inside me lines up directly to them. Drive, focus, resolve. I have to get finished with him and get out of here. “I have to get to work, but I’ll see you tonight.”
“Your girl called. She covered for you and got you the day off, so why don’t you slow down and chill? Eat some breakfast, and we can discuss—”
“When I have paid you back for fixing the car, I will be done at the bar.”
His eyes narrow a bit. “Eat, talk, and listen, but don’t make demands. I don’t like that shit.”
Chapter Eleven
Hendrix
I have already decided that Livi isn’t the kind of girl I can have hanging around. She is half crazy, indecisive, and now with all this making love shit talk, I’m not about to keep her around. To top it off, watching her in my clothes, in my place, telling me what to do is agitating.
I sit the plate with toast and a glass of water in front of her as I grab my own and take a bite. She’s looking at me while I’m looking at her, and I swear to God, I’m ready to tell her to step. I don’t want her damn money. I want her around longer.
“You work off your car debt Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday nights. Shouldn’t take long—”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you that I need either Friday or Saturdays off.” She reaches behind her again and rubs her ass. What the hell is up with that shit? “I will keep Thursday nights, but I really would like to have time for my social life.”
“You mean, going to functions and getting fuck—”
She holds a hand up, stopping me. “It was a one night thing. A step to becoming.” She stops and shakes her head then pushes her toast back. “I’m not hungry, thank you. I will see you tonight.”
“Hold up, Livi.” I follow behind her as she runs down the stairs.
Once in the garage, she looks down at her hands.
“You forgot your keys.” I hand them to her then hit the garage door opener.
Keys in hand, she gets in her car, fires her up, rolls down the window, and then thanks me before backing out of the garage.
I think to myself, don’t thank me yet, Livi, I’ve got plans for you.
*.*.*.*
I walk into the bar and turn on the lights. The place is clean and doesn’t smell. I think back to only a couple weeks ago and what I walked in on. I hate that bastard. There’s no reason to look back, but today, I am in a mood. I guess we could say I’m finally hitting that fourth step in the grieving process. Depression. I’m not depressed; I hate that word. So, again I am ‘in a mood.’
How could a man do that to a woman? How could my father do that to a woman who gave him three children? Fucking cheating on ‘his girl” all these years and while she was in the hospital dying. Fucking piece of shit asshole.
Jagger walks in. “Hey what’s up?” he asks, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.
“You been out all night?” I hand him a cup of coffee.
“Yep, I need to hit the gym and get some sleep,” he says before he takes a sip. “How’d our girl do last night? She was fucking tanked, man.”
“Yeah, not cool, Jagger. She’s young—”
“Old enough to go to the store, old enough to get bread, man.” He chuckles.
“She’s an employee,” I warn.
“Old enough to flirt, she’s old enough to squirt.”
“Bro, you’re to leave her the fuck alone.”
“Are you for real? Since when is ass off limits?”
I look at him, clamping my jaw shut, trying my damndest not to say a fucking word. But hell if I don’t want him to know she’s been had. He and Morrison may have shared a broad before, but the Caldwell rule is, if one of us has tapped in, the others don’t unless we tap out. I haven’t tapped out just yet. I need to, but I haven’t. Therefore, he sure as shit isn’t tagging in.
“Holy shit,” he gasps as my warning settles in on him. “You fucked Livi last night.”
“No, I certainly did not fuck Livi last night.”
“Oh, man, I know that look. You better fucking dish. Is she a virgin?”
I say nothing, merely look at him.
“Oh, man, she’s a virgin, and what, twenty-four, twenty-five? That’s fucked up. She needs to get laid. Unfair to her, man.”
“She’s not a virgin, and you better just leave it alone.”
“Fuck that. Since when do we leave shit like this alone?”
“I’m gonna say this once, and that’s it. Then, it’s dropped.”
“Do tell.” He leans in like a kid waiting on his mom to read the next chapter in a story book.
“You’re to blame. That fucking fundraiser is where we hooked up. We had masks on, so I had no fucking clue who she was, and she had no clue who I was.”
“Well, shit, I guess a fucking thank you is in order. How the hell did you figure that out?”
I don’t say shit.
“Did you rape her?” He snickers, knowing damn well I didn’t nor would I, but he wants to rile me.
“Are you out of your fucking—”
“Or”—he holds up his hand—“was consent fucking given?”
I shake my head and try not to smile.
“Holy shit, man, so that little panty tug-of-war was when the proverbial unmasking took place?”
“Not a word, Jagger. If she didn’t owe me for fixing up her car, she’d be done here.”
He laughs again. “Oh, really? Is that the mask you’re gonna hide behind?”
“I’m not hiding shit. True story.”
“So tag out.” He is challenging me, testing me, and I know it.
“This isn’t a game. I don’t do charity work. She gets square with me, and she can do whatever the hell she wants to do. Until then, back off.”
“Was she good?”
I look him in the eye. “I’m good, and that’s all that matters. Now go home and get some sleep. I need you back at the bar tonight.”
“Avoiding?” he jokes as he stands up to leave.
“No. I cook on Friday’s, asshole, and the crowds are getting bigger, so I need you to back her up.”
“Sure thing. Tomorrow night I have a fight, so she’ll have to be backed up against you,” he says over his shoulder as he strolls out the door like the kid who got a stocking full of candy for Christmas. I’m so glad one of us can find humor and happine
ss in all of this.
Livi, crazy ass Livi, does not need to be backed up against me again. No matter how much I’d like to revisit that pussy right now, I won’t.
*.*.*.*
I’m in the back when Livi walks in. “I came early.”
I glance up at the clock and nod as I rub the second prime rib down with the Caldwell rub. “It’ll be dead for an hour, so it wasn’t necessary to come early.” I flip the beef over and toss some more rub on it.
“Don’t worry; I’m not stepping on Sally’s shifts. I know she needs the money for her kids. I told her when I walked in I wasn’t here for that.”
“Well, what are you here for?”
“Well, I just…” As she stops and rubs her ass, I can’t help looking at her.
She is sexy as fuck, smells like heaven, and looks all put together, but the girl is fucking quirky as hell.
She looks up, and I look away. “I’m dedicated and determined to pay off my debt.”
“I didn’t doubt that, Olivia. I just don’t want awkward.”
“That makes two of us,” she says, blowing her hair out of her eyes. “Thank God your brothers don’t know. I mean, I was trying for a week to figure out if it was Jagger that I, umm, I—”
“You thought it was Jagger you fucked?”
She holds up her hand again, like a fucking traffic cop stopping me. For some reason, I let that shit go. “Sex. Had sex,” she retorts, and I shrug. “What, is there a problem with that, too?”
“Livi…” I put the roast in the pan and wipe my hands off on a bar towel. “You can say it anyway you want to.”
“But you prefer to say it in such a crude way,” she half-whispers, but I can tell she is trying to be assertive. I heard my mom use the same tone when she was talking to my old man.
“Not trying to be crude, Livi.” I put the roast in the oven then turn around. “No disrespect, all right? No judgment, either. You and I were both there. You and I both let go. The only difference between you and I is that I obviously have more experience.” I pause, trying to choose my words right, not something I am used to doing. I look up at her and lean casually against the counter. “I think fucking is better than having sex.”
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