by Olivia Chase
“What…what are we?” Whitney asks, pulling back from me and sitting on the chair adjacent to mine. She rests her hands on her lap.
I look down at my knuckles. Fuck. Been waiting for this to come up. I’m kinda surprised it took this long, actually. “What do you mean?” I ask dumbly. I know exactly what she means.
“I mean, are we in a relationship?”
“I’m not seeing anyone else, Whitney.” I try not to sigh. But I don’t want to talk about this. Not now. Not when I still have so much anger seething deep down in me, ready to burst out again.
Not to mention the claw of fear knifing at my stomach.
“Okay, but that doesn’t tell me anything except that I’m the only girl you’re having sex with.”
I look up at her, into her eyes, which are flat and hard on mine. “What do you want, Whitney? Flowers, promises, meaningless words?”
Her nostrils flare, and she reaches for a clean paper towel, wiping the zombie makeup off her face. Her skin is left bare and pink from the scrubbing. “I want to know what you’re feeling. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.”
“I’m feeling everything!” I tell her. “And that’s the problem. I can’t deal with all of this.”
“Well, we need to deal with it, because in two months, I’m moving away to go to college.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“Then we deal with it in two months,” I say, which I know is a stupid fucking thing to tell her, because she stands up and presses her hands to her hips.
“No, I’m not waiting two months to find out how you feel about me, because I—” She stops.
“Because you what?” I stand too and glare down at her.
“Because I love you, you idiot!” Her chest rises and falls with her pants.
I’m knocked back on my heels. I just stare at her for a long moment and the silence stretches between us.
Fuck. There it is. I’m simultaneously feeling a sharp surge of discomfort at her confession and something else warmer. Something I don’t fucking know how to handle. How did everything get so complicated?
I came back here to be with her, to take her, and instead, I’m neck-deep in emotions I didn’t expect.
Whitney tears her gaze away from me and stares at her shoes. Her arms drop to her sides. “I can’t wait two months for you to get your shit together and figure out what you want. I have plans for myself.”
“Plans that don’t include me.” My chest stings, and I swallow, keep my jaw tightly clenched. “You’re going away, Whitney.”
“Asher, you can’t deal with shit this way. I can’t plan a future with someone who thinks yelling and drinking and fighting is the way to handle his problems.” Her gaze lifts to meet mine, and there’s a deep sadness in her eyes. “Or running away.”
“Come on,” I tell her, that edge of anger in my words. “Seriously? I’m not going to keep apologizing for something I did in the past.”
“I’m not asking you to. But it’s something you keep doing even now. You have to stop running and you have to face things and deal with them. I can’t live with someone who’s like my dad.”
“Dysfunctional. Fucked up. Aggressive.” I fling the words at her, accusations. Yet the words are aimed at myself, because deep down I know she’s right. I’m a fuckup.
Whitney deserves better than me. I said it earlier and she tried to brush it off, but it’s true. I’m no good for her. For anyone. I’m a fucking mess, an idiot who thinks he’s handling his shit. But instead of handling it, I’m making everything worse.
Whitney loves me, though I don’t deserve it. I’m so fucking cowardly I can’t even say it back, because once I do, I’ll have to be ready to make decisions and actually figure out my completely screwed up life.
Shame punches me square in the gut.
“You should go,” I tell her evenly. “I’ll call you a cab or an Uber ride.”
No matter what Whitney might feel about me right now, I know that she deserves better than this. I look at my swollen hand and feel the burning stinging pain from the punches I took earlier.
The way I look and feel right now is exactly what I am—a big, angry guy who can’t deal with real life and real emotions.
Whitney sees it all in my face.
Her eyes go flat and her face falls. She grabs her phone from her pocket and taps her fingers across the screen. “No need. My mom is coming to pick me up.” She turns from me and opens the door.
I watch her walk away from me. My chest is a tangle of knots; I can’t seem to speak. I’m a fucking hypocrite. A worthless piece of shit.
The door clicks behind her, and I walk to the fridge and crack open a beer. Press the cold bottle against the injuries on my face. I’m numb now, but I can feel the pain deep below the surface, waiting to push back up and overwhelm me. I take a deep swig and try to forget everything.
It takes a few days for the bruises to start to fade from my face. Jax has busted my balls every morning about my “makeover,” to which I flipped him the bird.
Thank God for Outlaws, which has kept me occupied when I’m awake. All the shitty things we haven’t done around the bar have filled my time when we’re not open—the cleaning, filing, and so on.
I’ve been avoiding Whitney. Avoiding everyone. Just trying to get by and bide my time until I figure everything out. Hell, until I figure anything out.
Yesterday, Jax and Smith met up with Mom at the diner. I stayed at the bar. I’m still not ready to face her. I can’t bear to look into her eyes and wonder how the hell she managed to walk away from us for this long. She cheated us out of a relationship. Because of her pride.
Because she didn’t want to face what she’d done.
I look down at the bar tap in my hand and give a small laugh. I can recognize the irony in that statement—since my ego and pride are keeping me from Whitney, and I’m afraid to face what I need to face in my own life.
But that’s different. Me staying away is better for Whitney.
Whitney should never be with a fuckup like me.
“I’d hate to see the other guy,” a sultry voice says from in front of me. I lift my gaze and see a blonde with bold red lipstick giving me a wry smile. She nods at my injuries. “You probably put him in the hospital, didn’t you.”
I shake my head and smile. “Not quite, but he would have deserved it.” I heard that Davis’s nose is broken and he looks like he got ran over by a train. Fucker. “What can I get ya?”
She raises a brow. “Whatcha got for me?”
There’s more to this conversation than beer. It’s clear she’s flirting with me. She’s my usual type—bold, thin, with plump lips and huge tits and eyes that promise me a good time.
She’s not doing anything for me. I don’t feel a fucking thing.
It’s almost strange how little I feel in response to her suggestive expressions and comments.
I point to the taps. “We have these, and some bottles too. The chalkboard behind me tells our current bottle offerings.”
She draws her lower lip between her teeth. “There isn’t anything special off the list that you have for me?”
I see a regular down the bar flagging me down. I grab a mug and fill it with his favorite beer. “Not right now, no, sorry.” I give her an apologetic smile and shuffle to the end of the bar to serve him.
Despite it being November, the bar is warm—probably because of the crowd in here. I need some fucking fresh air. I wave at Jax from across the room to ask him to take over the bar for a few minutes. He nods, and I head to the front door. Lean against the chilly brick and suck in refreshingly cold oxygen.
My gaze flits around, and then I stop in place when I see who’s parked on his motorcycle across the street. Staring at the bar.
What the fuck? I shift away from the wall and stalk through the parking lot toward my cousin Hale. What is he doing here?
He revs his motorcycle, shoots me the finger, then zooms off before I can reach him.
What a dick move.
I watch him go, glaring at his back. There’s no love lost between our two families. But they usually stay away from Outlaws, since that’s our turf. What the fuck is he lurking here for?
I try to shake off the unsettled feeling in my chest. It doesn’t matter. He’s gone now.
I head back into the bar, my mind shifting to think about everything else going on in my life. The clusterfuck with Whitney. My mom’s reappearance. My lack of a concrete focus on my future.
Maybe coming back here was a mistake. Maybe I should have stayed at school. Because I feel worse now than I ever did before.
I head back behind the bar, grab a mug, and fill it with beer. Take a deep swig and sigh. I just need to shake this shit off. Have a little fun, relieve some stress.
That blonde is talking with a friend. I really study her. She could be a good distraction, a release of pressure. Then I think about Whitney spread out on my bed, her mouth swollen from our kisses, her body red and marred from my aggressive grip, how she begged me for more, and I know anything with this blonde would pale in comparison.
No escape for me in fucking. No escape for me in fighting. So drinking it is.
I chug the beer as fast as I can, then hold up my mug. “Fuck yeah! Let’s get some beer flowing in this place! Is this a bar or a funeral home?”
The people clustered around the bar clap and whoop with me.
“A round of shots on me!” I tell everyone, grabbing as many shot glasses as I can find and pouring well vodka. Jax would kill me if I used the good stuff, but a little goodwill toward our customers can’t be a bad thing.
Everyone takes a shot, and people are smiling, laughing. Alcohol flows through my body, loosens my limbs, takes away the lingering body ache from the fight I had on Halloween. This is what I needed.
Throughout the night, I continue to do shots and drink beer. My mind is floating, and I feel fucking good. Fuck it all. Fuck the world. Fuck responsibilities. Fuck caring. Fuck everything.
I’m a Beckett. This is how we deal with problems. We drink and we party and we don’t take any shit from anyone. I’m tired of agonizing over every damn thing in my life.
A hand thumps on the bar. It’s Rob, burly with his beard and flannel, his howling filling the bar. “Fuck yeah, Asher! Let’s do a shot together, brother!”
I grin and pour two Jameson shots for us.
Whitney
The weeks pass in a haze. My dad is back from rehab now, and he seems different. Quieter, more thoughtful. He’s started doing chores around the house to help while Mom and I are at work, and he’s scouring the ads for a new job.
Before he came home, we poured out all the alcohol in the house. He’s been drinking a lot of coffee, and he took back up smoking, something he’d quit a long time ago. But one vice at a time.
He’s also been diligent about attending AA and his outpatient therapy.
I’ve even seen him and Mom cuddling on the couch a few times. I can’t remember the last time the two of them were affectionate. Seeing the change in him makes me realize how far gone everything had gotten. It’s the whole boiling-a-frog-slowly thing…if the change in temperature is slow, a frog will sit in cold water as it slowly boils him to death.
Our family was boiling to death, and I had no idea.
When I’m not at home or at work, I’m desperately keeping busy. Anything to prevent me from thinking about Asher.
Because I haven’t heard one word from him.
Not one word in…almost a month now. Not one text. I glance at my phone for the hundred thousandth time. Nothing.
I can’t stop replaying our last time together in my head. I told him I loved him. It just came out. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I think part of me wanted to see how he’d react, to force him into doing something. Anything.
Oh, it forced his hand, all right. He’s been avoiding me. Is he still mad and needing time to sort his shit out? Or are we done for good?
I just don’t know, and I don’t have any answers. And the uncertainty is eating me alive, slowly, day by day.
Last time he went away for a year to figure it out. I can’t deal with that sort of a break again, and besides, he came back and yet he still needs more time away from me. Maybe he’s just completely flakey.
I wish I could write him off and forget, but he’s still deep under my skin. I think about him constantly.
I even dream about him sometimes.
I tug my work shirt down and head to the drinks station to get sodas for one of my tables. The marks from that one night where he did all those beautifully dirty things to me have completely faded. It’s like that night never happened. I have no proof of Asher being in my life at all, as if he never left school and moved to Rock Bridge. Never changed everything for me.
I wish I could hate him, but I can’t stop longing for him, missing the sound of his laugh, the feel of his hands on me.
I get through the rest of my work shift. A couple of coworkers have shot me concerned looks. I can feel their eyes on me. I know I’m not behaving normally. I can’t help it—it’s like my heart has been shattered, and I’m carrying around a bunch of loose pieces in my chest.
Damn you, Asher, I whisper in my head.
After my shift is done, I head to my car and drive home. There’s a bone-deep fatigue that has rooted in me. I feel like my life is spinning in place. I’m not going anywhere, and I hate it so much.
When I turn onto my street, I impulsively pull into a nearby driveway and turn around. Head my car toward Outlaws before I can change my mind. It’s been long enough—Asher needs to talk to me.
I’ve waited long enough.
I’m not going to be that broken girl I was before, just waiting on him to tell me why he ran from me. Screw that. I’m stronger now.
My heart is hammering against my chest as I navigate into the parking lot and find a spot. I drop my keys in my purse and walk into the bar. It’s crowded, with nearly every table full, even more so than the last time I was here. Outlaws is doing well—the makeover is obviously working.
The brothers must be proud of their hard work.
I see Jax running around, delivering drinks to tables with a broad smile on his face. Brooklyn is nearby with a tray of drinks and appetizers, her belly even more rounded than when I last saw her. She can’t be too far off from her delivery date now. My heart squeezes from missing everyone.
I started to feel like I was a part of them. Was I wrong, just fooling myself?
Behind the bar is Smith, slinging drinks with the efficiency of a machine. I walk up to him. “Is Asher around?”
He nods toward the back door behind him. “He’s back there working on inventory. Go ahead.”
I can hear my pulse throbbing in my ears, and my palms begin to sweat. Nervous doesn’t even describe what I’m feeling right now. Maybe this is a bad idea, I tell myself. Maybe I should just give him space.
I did give him space. A month of it. The last time I gave him space, I was sure he forgot that I existed. I can’t wait that long this time.
I push the door open and step inside. The air is cooler in here. Asher’s in the corner with a clipboard in hand, comparing what’s in boxes to what’s on the paper on the clipboard.
When he hears me, he looks up. His eyes widen for a moment, then shutter. The space between us is unapproachable. Asher’s gone away from me—I can see it right there on his face. “Whitney. What are you doing here?”
The pieces of my heart break into tiny sand-like fragments. His voice is wooden, his gaze flat. No emotion for me at all. He doesn’t even move toward me.
I’m an idiot. I can see it’s over between us now, but I need to hear the words, fool that I am. “Since you pulled another vanishing act on me, even though you promised not to do that again, I came to find out what the hell is going on.”
He gives a tiny frown, then straightens his face, his shoulders. “I’m busy. I can’t do this right now.”
“No,
I suppose it’s never a good time for you. Unless you’re ready for to talk. Everything runs on Asher Beckett’s schedule.” The frustration that’s been churning in me for the past month starts to spill out. “Well, life doesn’t work that way. Sometimes you just have to deal with shit even when you don’t want to.”
He plops the clipboard on top of the box and stalks over to me. His whole body is stiff. “What do you want, Whitney?”
“I need to hear you tell me what’s going on and why you’ve been avoiding me.”
He sighs heavily. “I thought we addressed it all last time we saw each other. What more do we need to say?”
“So that’s it? We’re done?” I blink in disbelief.
Seriously? Why did he come back then to find me if he was just going to dump me? Am I missing something here? I’m so confused and hurt and lost.
He finally shows a flare of emotion, his jaw tightening. “What the fuck else could possibly happen with us? We both know I’m wrong for you. You’re going off to college, anyway. We have no future. There’s nothing here for us.”
My throat tightens with unshed tears. I’m not going to cry in front of him. I’m not going to do it.
Would Asher have wanted to be with me if I weren’t going away? It doesn’t matter. Clearly whatever we had wasn’t strong enough to weather even the first sign of trouble.
Asher shakes his head. “Go, Whitney. Go off and live your life. Go enjoy college and fulfill all your dreams. Good luck to you, I mean that sincerely.” He’s looking at the floor, the wall behind me, anywhere but in my eyes.
And it hurts. God, it hurts so badly. My chest aches with deep pain. “Fine. Have it your way. Good luck to you too, Asher.”
I turn and leave. He doesn’t stop me.
I walk out of Outlaws. Get back in my car, and the tears start to flow. I sit in there and cry for a good ten minutes. Then I wipe my face and steel my spine. Drive home.
Mom and Dad are still on the couch when I walk in. When Mom sees my face, her own face falls, and she stands up and wraps me in her arms. “Oh, sweetie.”
The tears start rushing out of me again. I hug her. “I’m so stupid, Mom. I knew better, but I let myself get hurt by him again.”