Paige in Progress (Reluctant Hearts #3)

by Brighton Walsh

  I pause just inside the door of the break room. Walking out is always the hardest step. Coming into the pub, with my regular clothes on, my face down, is nothing. I’m still me. I’m still invisible.

  It’s hard to be invisible while wearing nothing but this. Hot pink top smaller than some sports bras I’ve seen. Black boy shorts that cover less of my skin than some of my underwear.

  I can hear the raucous laughs of the patrons already. Tuesday nights aren’t usually too bad. We have a few regulars, and sometimes people celebrating birthdays, but I generally don’t have to worry too much about guys getting handsy with me, or hanging around and waiting for me after closing to see if my flirting actually meant something. Those nights are the worst.

  Knowing I can’t put it off any longer, I push through the door.

  “Hey, sugar,” Annette says as she mixes up a drink behind the bar. In her late forties, she’s the floor manager-slash-bartender and the only one of us lucky enough to wear jeans and a T-shirt with the pub’s logo on it. What I wouldn’t give for that much coverage. “Randy’s in the office. He didn’t notice. You’re fine.”

  I breathe for what feels like the first time since I left class. “Thanks.” She nods and tells me what tables I’ve got, and I go to work. Shoulders rolled back. Shell in place. Smile plastered on. Seventy-six days to freedom.

  * * *

  cade

  This is the reason I wanted to become a chef. This feeling right here. The rush of adrenaline, the high that comes from a well-done dinner service. The sense of accomplishment when someone compliments your dish. That’s me on a plate, every time, and there’s nothing in the world that feels better than when someone loves what I’ve created for them.

  The energy in the kitchen is buzzing, everyone pumped up after a great night, and I’m one of them, knowing we kicked ass tonight. I concentrate on cleaning up my station at the end of my bistro class, listening to my classmates bustle around me, excitement in the tone of their voices.

  “Hey, Cade,” Chef Foster says when he stops in front of my station. “Come see me before you leave.”

  “Sure thing.” I wipe down the stainless steel table and then pack up my knives. Once they’re secure in my bag, I head to where I see Chef Foster just as he finishes with another student.

  He glances at me, then tips his head to the back corner of the kitchen, the only place that’ll allow us a modicum of privacy. Once we’re there, he slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Excellent work tonight, Cade.”

  “Thank you, Chef.”

  “I really mean it. I always knew you had talent, even when you were little, but what you’ve developed in to is more than I could’ve hoped for.”

  I stand a little taller at his words, pride swelling in me. Chef Foster—Mark when we’re not in school—is an amazing teacher and someone I’m lucky enough to call my mentor. Hearing that from him feels like winning the lottery. “That means a lot.”

  “Well, you know I don’t bullshit.” A grin lifts the side of my mouth as I nod, and he continues, “You know these last couple months are crucial for your future prospects. Do you know yet what you’d like to do after you graduate?”

  I swallow, a million thoughts bombarding me. Tessa and Haley and working in a kitchen in New York or L.A. and studying in Italy . . . My responsibilities battling with my dreams. Though it’s not really a battle at all, because there’s no competition. “Well, my long-term goal will be to open my own restaurant. Before that, I’d just be happy to work my way up to executive chef somewhere.”

  “Are you looking at strictly Italian cuisine?” he asks, referring to my specialty.

  “No, but all the better if that was where I ended up.”

  “Have you started looking?”

  “Not yet. Should I be?”

  “Probably not, but I’d start mid-May. And, of course, you know you’d increase your chances if you were open to different locations.”

  “You mean—”

  “Outside the state.”

  I stare at him, unsure of what to say to that. In the past year, he’s been hinting at me broadening my horizons for where I’d look, but it’s never been anything quite so blunt. If anyone knows how difficult that would be for me, it’s him. He’s been a family friend for as long as I can remember, and he witnessed firsthand the devastation that rocked my family. Leaving now . . . leaving Tessa and Haley? That’s not an option.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  He stares at me for a moment, his jaw ticking. Knowing him as long as I have, I have no doubt he has something he wants to say. Rather than doing so, he eventually gives a short nod, blowing out a breath. “Well, let me know when you need some recommendation letters. I’d be happy to send them.”

  “Thanks, Chef.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Keep up the good work.”

  I nod, shouldering my bag and heading out of the kitchen after offering good-byes to a few friends.

  I’m not even halfway to the parking lot before my phone buzzes with a text message.

  Come out 2nite

  I roll my eyes and quickly type out a response to my best friend before pocketing my phone. I haven’t taken five steps when my phone rings.

  Knowing it’s him, I answer, “Yeah.”

  “Why do you have to be such a pussy all the time?” Jason asks.

  I laugh, shaking my head as I walk toward the street. “If that’s you trying to talk me into going, it’s not working.”

  Someone shouts in the background and Jason yells back before talking into the phone again. “Well, what the fuck else am I supposed to do? You haven’t been out in months.”

  “You’re an asshole. We just hung out when Adam was home a couple weeks ago.”

  “Hanging out on your couch playing Call of Duty does not constitute going out, dumbass.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been doing this thing called going to classes and studying and working. Not all of us have parents willing to foot the bill through four changes in majors and the extended college plan.”

  “Hey, I’ll graduate one of these years.”

  I snort. “Maybe.”

  “And if you’re trying to sound like less of a pussy, you need to work on your tactics.”

  I chuckle, knowing exactly what he’s doing. Goading me used to be effective, back when we were fifteen, sixteen. Seven years later, not so much. “Still not working.”

  He groans. “Come on, man. It’s Sean’s birthday. Everyone is out. I’ll even buy you a round.”

  Heaving a sigh, I drop my head back as my shoulders slump. After four hours on my feet in the kitchen, I just want to relax. I feel like I haven’t showered in a week. I feel like I haven’t slept in even longer. Even still, he’s right—I could use a night out.

  “Yeah, all right. Gimme an hour. Where are we meeting, Shooters?”

  “Not sure. Sean wants to barhop. Give me a call when you head out. I’ll let you know where we are.”

  “’Kay. Later.”

  I hang up, pocketing my phone as soon as I reach my motorcycle. It’s still a bit cold for it to be an enjoyable ride, but Tessa needed the car, so I didn’t have much of a choice. I straddle my bike and button up my coat before I rev the engine to life. The loud roar echoes around me as I peel out of the space and rumble down the street.

  Riding is my escape—the one thing I take for myself. I forget about my responsibilities—classes and bills and the people who depend on me. My mom always hated this thing, hated it the first day I brought it home, but I think she’d understand my love for it now.

  When I ride it, it’s my peace.

  i still forget, sometimes. Even after four years. When I walk through the front door, sometimes I expect to hear her in the kitchen, the smells of her cooking greeting me. The sound of her laughter filling my ears. The sense of security and ease I always had before everything changed.

  Tonight the house is empty, not even the sounds of Tessa or Haley echoing down the hallway. I chec
k my watch, then shoot Tess a quick text, making sure everything is okay. They probably went somewhere after Haley’s ballet practice, but there’s still lingering doubt that gnaws at my gut. After living through the kind of tragedies I have, it’s hard to turn it off—that constant worry that’s always there, lurking under the surface.

  As I wait for her text, I jump in the shower, then throw on whatever clean clothes I can find scattered around my room. I’m ready to go sooner than I expected, and I grab my keys and coat on my way out the door, checking my phone for a reply. Finding one there, my worries fade, and I reply, letting Tess know I’ll be gone till later tonight.

  Before starting up my bike, I call Jason to find out where they are. He’s already well on his way to being shit-faced, and I’m not sure this was such a good idea. I love him like a brother, but I can’t help that bit of jealousy I get as an outsider looking in at his life. Wondering what it’d be like to be a normal, carefree twenty-three-year-old guy. Where the only thing I had to worry about was where I was going drinking that weekend and who I was going to fuck. Instead I’m worried about keeping my scholarships and paying bills, all the while attending school full-time and holding down a part-time job.

  Still, even if I had a choice, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love Tessa and Haley more than anything.

  By the time I get to The Brewery, I know the guys have already hit several bars before this one. I spot them in the back by the pool tables. They’re loud and obnoxious, roaring over the only other group taking up space inside.

  I head over, seeing Jason at the pool table, curled over the bent form of his latest conquest, no doubt “improving” her shooting skills. He notices me, tips his chin, and grins before returning his attention to the girl he’s probably hoping to get in the pants of tonight.

  I flag the waitress, ordering a beer, and get pulled into a conversation between Sean and Dave about last night’s game.

  After a while, a hard slap lands on my shoulder. “Hey, pussy.”

  I look over my shoulder and straighten to my full height. Jason is tall, but I’m taller, and I stare down at him. “You really want to start this? I kicked your ass in third grade. I can do it again.”

  A laugh rumbles out of him. “Yeah, only because you sucker punched me.” He shakes his head, landing another blow on my shoulder. “I can see you’re still pissy as hell. We need to get you laid.”

  Before I can retort, he continues, “You get a beer already? What’d ya think of Mandi?”

  With a furrowed brow, I ask, “Who?”

  “Our waitress. The food here sucks, but the uniforms definitely make up for it.”

  I stare at him for a minute before shaking my head. “You’re such a jackass. I don’t understand how you even get girls to sleep with you.”

  “Charisma, my friend. Charisma. And speaking of getting girls to sleep with me, where’s Tess?”

  He waggles his eyebrows, and I shove him so hard he stumbles back, laughing. “Fuck off.”

  Holding his hands up in surrender, he says, “I’m just playing.” He’s been just playing regarding Tess for as long as I can remember. The first time he said something like that, I ended up with swollen knuckles and he had a black eye. He tips his beer in my direction. “Drink up. You need to relax.”

  A-fucking-men.

  * * *

  winter

  Sometimes I daydream. Think about what it will be like after I’ve graduated. Once I have a steady job. A real job. Something that doesn’t require ninety percent of my skin showing. I picture myself in Maine or South Carolina or Texas. New York, maybe. I’ve become so good at this, I can almost smell the scents of my nonexistent apartment in some far-off city, can name the colors of paint on the walls, can count the number of dirty dishes in the sink.

  When I’m working, it’s my escape. When I have to smile and bend over to pick up a customer’s napkin or get him something from the kitchen for the fourth time so he can watch my ass as I walk away . . . it’s what I think about to get through the hours, the minutes. It helps to remind myself why I’m here. What I’m working for. Why I put up with jackasses who smell of whiskey and cigarettes and cheap cologne. Who smell exactly like my childhood.

  “Sweetheart. Hey, sweetheart!”

  I’m so wrapped up in my fantasy, it takes me a moment to realize a guy from table seven is talking to me. I hate this part of the night. Those thirty minutes before last call, when everyone is drunk on alcohol and the prospect of getting lucky. The men get rowdy and restless . . . never a good combination.

  “What can I get you?”

  He crooks his finger at me, beckoning me closer. Internally, I roll my eyes, but my face holds the mask I’ve perfected in the time I’ve worked here, and I lean forward until his whiskey breath whispers across my cheek.

  “You can get me your number.”

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been propositioned, and it’s definitely the tamer kind I’ve heard. By now, I have a system in place. In the time it takes me to imagine what I’d do if this asshole told me that outside these four walls, I keep my eyes down and allow a hint of a smile to curve my lips, shuttering my real thoughts from him. When it seems like I’ve had long enough to actually contemplate his words, I offer him a regretful look, the corners of my mouth turned down. “I’d love to, but we’re not allowed to give our numbers to the customers.”

  “Just pretend you’re not working, then.”

  I’m standing close enough for his arm to snake around my back, his hand settling on my waist. After thirteen months of working here, I’ve gotten pretty good at reading people. I know from fairly early on which guys are going to hassle me, which ones are harmless flirts, which ones will get handsy by the end of the night. I called this guy as the latter when he was two beers in . . . six drinks ago. It makes my skin crawl, but I’ve had a long time to practice this facade. I could win a freaking Oscar for the performances I put on here.

  I lean into him slightly—just enough to make him think I’d actually be interested . . . if only we met at a different time, in a different place—and point to the back corner where a mirrored window reflects back at us. “I’d love to, but my boss is watching. I can’t afford to get fired.” The latter, at least, is true.

  Sometimes they’re satisfied when I feed them the whole my boss is watching line. Sometimes all I need to do is flirt a little bit, bat my eyelashes, flash a smile, bite my bottom lip. Sometimes that’s not enough, and I need to lean into them, touch their forearm or their shoulder. Those nights aren’t so bad. I still feel dirty after I leave, and I take a shower as soon as I get home, attempting to wash the disgust off me. And then I mark off the days on my calendar and remind myself this isn’t for nothing. I’m paving my path the best way I can. The only way I can on my own.

  But sometimes none of those work. And this is one of those times. Even though I was expecting it, it’s still jarring when his hand slides from my waist until he’s got a handful of my ass. If I felt threatened, I’d whip out one of the half-dozen self-defense moves I know, call for Randy, hope he actually did something, and walk away. In all the time I’ve worked here, I’ve only had to do that once, though. And even then, it wasn’t Randy who came to help, but Annette. Usually, like now, these guys are harmless. Disgusting, perverted pigs, but harmless. Sure, he smells like cheap cologne and alcohol and he’s got something stuck in his teeth, but he’s too wasted to prove to be a real threat to me.

  I do a quick scan of the table, noticing the three other guys packing up their shit, divvying up the check, paying no attention to the dickbag with his hand on my ass. They’ve been here taking up one of my tables for three hours. Three hours of lewd remarks they think I can’t hear. Three hours of leers and whispers about my ass or my boobs. And now it’s down to five minutes . . . ten, tops. That’s all the longer I need to make it, and hopefully the show I gave them will be enough to warrant a tip large enough to justify feeling dirty. Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t be be
tter off heading to Roxy’s, the strip club down the street, and just getting it over with. At least there, there are no pretenses. Take your clothes off, rake in your tips, go home. And there’d be no touching. I’m not the thinnest or the most voluptuous girl, but that doesn’t seem to matter to the guys. If my mother taught me anything in the seven years I was with her, it’s to use your body to your advantage if you can.

  Before I can smile or bite my lip or laugh, lean in and rest my fingers on his chest and tell him how much I wish I could bend the rules, he yelps and his hand is gone from my ass. I whirl around to a brick wall of gray cotton, and look up, up, up until I get to the clenched jaw of some guy I’ve never met. His dark hair is buzzed short, the bulk of his body nearly obscene, the forearms peeking out of his sleeves covered in ink, but that’s all I notice before I’m focusing on the fact that he’s got Handsy Asshole’s arm bent and twisted up and against his back, and he’s whispering something in his ear. Something too low for me to hear.

  And while I don’t have my customer’s hands on me or his breath in my face or his eyes fucking my body, I can’t focus on what relief I feel because all I can think is that this guy—this asshole who got a little handsy—was how I was going to buy groceries.

  And any chance I had of getting a tip probably vanished the second this giant of a man swept his way into something that’s none of his business in the first place.

  * * *

  cade

  I spotted her somewhere between discussing the shot made in the final three seconds to win last night’s game and the latest version of Halo. It would make me sound like more of a guy if I said I was drawn to her because of her tits in that nonexistent shirt or her ass hanging out of those shorts that might as well be panties—which, yeah, I noticed both. But the truth is, her eyes were what drew me in.