I feel uncharacteristically bold.
Fuck Roxanne.
Fuck Ed.
Ed could have a whole pile of problems tomorrow. He’s already facing a workplace injury with Carla, but now, if Carla is litigious (she’s not), she could probably sue him for tonight’s stupidity. He’s grabbed my ass more times than I can count. Just let him try something.
I take my tables from Roxanne, then re-mark two of Jen’s, on the chart, for myself. I sneak over and tell Jen which two I’m co-opting then get to work. And for a while, I’m unstoppable.
Until I start talking to Clinton Deane — the tall, rugged drink of water who owns Stuffy’s Bar and is sitting in my section. Clinton is exactly my type, and I’m sure I’d flirt with him more if I didn’t know how intensely devoted he is to his wife. Insultingly, his loyalty turns me on more, and for a long time I couldn’t talk to Clinton when he came in. But most times, he eats with said wife, and I see how happy they seem, and that helps. Because I think of how they could be me and someone I love, in another life, in another place, in another time when things were different.
“Maaaya,” he says, dragging my name out into something close to a drawl as I approach. I don’t know where Clinton is originally from, but his slight accent makes everything he says a whole lot sexier. The things Clinton says and does would be stupid coming from most people, but they fit him like a Texan’s hat.
“Hi, Clinton.” I nod at the pretty woman across from him. “Hi, Taylor.”
“So,” he says, doing something with his chiseled, stubbled face that reminds me of chewing on straw, “who do I lodge my complaint with?”
Clinton comes in here often enough that I can play with him — asexually, of course, though he never fails to rev my motor.
“For the bloodbath earlier?”
“Naw,” he says. “For the fact I’m gonna have to have a shit dumpster for a few days on account of you.”
That might be the oddest thing anyone has ever accused me of. My forever-present lust evaporates, and now Clinton is a man who’s said something I don’t get. His expression bothers me. Looking over at Taylor, I see that this is a shared joke. On me.
I look from Clinton to Taylor. Taylor to Clinton.
“’Cause of the dickhead coming home to tend his uncle’s final affairs and clear out that ass house of his on Celebratory Court. Guess he needs the big bin more than Stuffy’s does.”
“What are you talking about?” I came to take their drink order, but I’ve already forgotten the pad and pen in my hands.
“She doesn’t know,” Taylor says.
“’Course she knows.” But then Clinton looks right at me, and something softens in his charming blue eyes. He’s a lovable loudmouth, and part of going to Stuffy’s is understanding that Clinton is going to shout ostentatious hellos to everyone as they enter, that he’s going to drink with those who can hold their liquor and sometimes fight with those who can’t. But right now, I can see that he feels he’s put his foot in that big mouth of his. He’s spoken out of turn, assuming I was in on whatever this is, but now sees that he’d blown it.
“What don’t I know?”
“Aw, I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I guess he’s meaning to surprise you. I figured you’d know, or I wouldn’t’a said anything.”
Something about that makes my heart beat double. I look at Taylor, all thoughts of serving forgotten.
“Who’s going to surprise me?”
“Just a rumor, Sweetie,” Taylor says, giving me a little head tilt that apologizes for the town, how it gossips, how it is with information that’s none of its business. “But after Ernie Harglow died last week, we figured you’d … ”
She trails off. Ernie Harglow. Why do I know that name?
Then it hits me because few people know many Ernies, outside of Bert’s roommate.
“What did you hear?” I ask. “Is … ”
“Well, old Ernie didn’t really have nobody to come back and clear out for him,” Clinton says, now almost timid, “’cept for your old guy, Grady.”
CHAPTER 9
Maya
And of course, Chadd shows up again.
I manage to competently juggle my tables, I think, after hearing a bombshell like the one dropped on me by the Deanes. The diner’s a mess, and to my delight, Roxanne seems to have acquired a table of jerks who are immune to both her death stare and her feminine wiles. Usually, intimidation and sex appeal blend to give Roxanne superpowers over anyone, but I’m seeing none of it today. She seems pissed, and for once it’s not at me.
I go about my job, trying to keep Grady from my mind. I honestly don’t know how I feel. Part of me is excited, for sure, but the larger part of me, wielding dignity as a weapon, finds that part weak and pathetic. Most of me is angry, jilted, annoyed, enraged, righteous, indignant. All Grady did to me, in the end, was rub salt in my wounds. When I needed him most, he decided to be selfish, so he ran without looking back. It doesn’t even matter that my parents, when they find out, will likely forgive him. Because that’s logical. Because hey, doesn’t the Bible teach forgiveness? Something they never had to give me until I got knocked up, because their first-strike weapon — guilt — was so effective in keeping me in a farce of chains.
But then I see the stunningly sexy, grinning form of Chadd at one of my tables. Not even holding up a menu. Just looking at me, as if we have an understanding. As if he realizes how I’ve been thinking about him all day, part of me regretting deleting his message and losing his number. As if he thinks my sadness and guilt and fear and insecurity are truly lust and desire, which is how they come out around men like Chadd. As if he doesn’t know that tempting me when I’m weakest is like offering an alcoholic a bottle to soothe her pains.
Like a coward, I trade.
Jen takes Chadd. She doesn’t ask why. I like Jen a lot, and suspect that she gets me on a level I’m afraid to admit. Maybe Jen is like me, with a wild side that she keeps obsessively hidden, like I do. If this town had a prize for most responsible, most chaste, most go-out-of-her-way-helpful good mother award, I’d win it. In a way, everyone’s expectations make me feel worse about who I truly am. Because someone like that shouldn’t ever scream with lust. A girl as reserved and charitable and aboveboard as I seem to be should never be down on her knees, even for her husband, with a man’s cock in her mouth.
But Jen, without saying or implying a thing, seems to understand. She takes one look at Chadd and another at me then simply agrees. And when I breathe a too-relieved “Thank you,” she doesn’t even ask why it means so much to me. One handsome man. One waitress who’s booked to serve him. It shouldn’t be a daunting scenario, but Jen just accepts it.
I focus on my other tables. I start to sweat, feeling like a pig. I’m wearing my skirt uniform because the slacks were dirty, and at some point God decides it would be hilarious to have the back stick to my skin too high up, leaving half of my ass hanging out. Ed brushes past me, and I’m made aware of my wardrobe malfunction when his hand brushes me. It sickens me because even though the top half of my mind knows this is just Ed being lecherous, I’m wired enough that my base half imagines the hand as Chadd’s, going where it doesn’t belong. Where I crave it.
I try to focus on Mackenzie. On doing the right thing.
But then I make a mistake. I’ve been steering clear of Chadd in ways that are downright ridiculous, going through the kitchen to hit the back tables instead of walking by him. Avoiding any glances in that direction. But by ten o’clock I’m frazzled enough to slip. And Chadd is waiting.
He looks at me. I meet his dead-sexy eyes. All of my triggers are already sprung. There is no safe haven in my thoughts because all roads lead to something that’s troubling me, and I always seek comfort when bothered. I escape from my problems. And as far as this alcoholic is concerned, I’ve been running through a bar all night, smelling whiskey with every shaking breath.
I have nothing left when I see him. No reserves. No restraint. No self-control.
Everything defaults to something base within me, and despite all the trouble, I feel nothing but throbbing. I can’t take the trouble, but I can take the immediate, pressing sensation of lust.
“Hey,” Chadd says.
And that’s all it takes.
CHAPTER 10
Maya
I’m transparent. I can’t even hide what’s filling me. I can feel the diner’s fans somehow wicking up under my dress, creating imperceptible movements in the plain cotton bottom hem of my panties. My skin feels flushed; I’m sure my hair, at the hairline, is sticking to my scalp. I want to run to a mirror to see what kind of a wide-eyed travesty I’ve become, but I’m finding it hard to move. And Chadd, for his part, seems not to care if I look amiss.
Possibly, I don’t look amiss at all.
Possibly, I look like an animal in heat.
He’s still watching me. I manage a “Hey” back, but the silence that follows is more damning than words. Because the way we’re posing here in the middle of this busy restaurant, me standing and him sitting, it’s clear there’s something between us — or something begging to be.
I need to say something. I need to move on.
But he’s watching me with his knowing, come-on look. Sly. His teeth seem very white. His eyes are outwardly friendly, inwardly predatory in just the right way. He can see through me. Right through this stupid little waitress uniform that someone like me, if I hadn’t got pregnant, should have no business wearing. Right through the sensible undergarments beneath, worn by a woman who’s practical, not flighty, always responsible.
My wild days are supposed to be behind me. I’m not like that anymore.
But it’s as if Chadd, looking at me now, knows none of it.
He’s looking at me like an object worth desiring.
He’s looking at me like he doesn’t know what a good person I try to be.
He’s looking at me like he has no clue that I’m struggling hard with the right way to break it to my daughter that yes, she could join Brownies, but no, there’s no real way I could ever take her to enough meetings and events to matter.
It’s as if I’m just a woman to him.
It’s as if I have no worries. No challenges. No hurtful past. No scars.
Just a woman.
I drop my pad. It falls from my hand and hits the floor, as if my fingers have forgotten how to grip. Chadd goes for it before I can. He takes his time on the way up, following the contours of my leg, lingering where they vanish below my skirt. When he’s upright again, his face is right at my middle. Everything in me is on fire, and I’m sure — I’m begging — that he’ll reach beneath and touch me. That he’ll simply lift the front of my skirt here and now, pull aside my sopping panties, and put his tongue to use.
“I … I … ”
“Maybe you should go splash some water on your face,” he tells me.
I turn to go. I turn to obey. I get a look or two from my tables, who probably need their water refilled or a general check-in. But a second later I’m in the ladies’ room. It’s a single-occupancy so I almost press the lock out of habit, but then remember why I’m here and don’t.
I look in the mirror. I see the same red hair. The same wide lips. The same face that everyone looks at and thinks I’m a good girl. The same face that volunteers so often. The face I found it hard to look at in the mirror after the first few times I had sex because I was convinced that intercourse was something to be ashamed of. The devil’s work.
My heart is pounding when the door opens again. The way the mirror is angled, I can’t see who enters without turning, but this time, I hear the lock click.
Hands find my skin, below my hips, below the fall of my skirt. And when I look up, I see Chadd’s smooth, charming face for a few seconds before I stand tall and he leans in, pushing my hair aside to kiss my neck.
I can still stop this.
Oh, God, I don’t want to stop it.
I know it’s wrong. I know it’s terrible. I know that every time I’ve done something like this in the past, it makes me into a hundred things I don’t want to be: a slut, a whore, a tramp, easy. But I don’t stop it. I seek it out. I drew a line in the sand years ago, ever since those first shameful, rushed, sinfully exciting encounters, and put half of myself on each. It’s like I’m two women. One is good. The other is bad. And the idea that there could be any overlap — that someone like I should be could ever enjoy the things I do — seems absurd.
And still, I want him to kiss me more.
I want him to slide his hands higher, bringing my skirt up with them. And he does, making me cold and hot at the same time.
He cups my breasts. Then his hand is below my shirt, under my bra, pawing them for real, rubbing my nipples, bringing me to life.
Stop it.
But now, all I want is to make it happen. Now, of all times, I need this, even knowing how badly I’ll regret it later.
I turn in Chadd’s arms. I push him back against the wall. I doff my shirt and bra and toss them on top of the lidded trash can. My hands are on his fly, opening it, unzipping it, reaching down for what I can already feel wanting me as much as I want it.
His cock parts my lips, sliding across my tongue. Chadd sighs above me, and his pleasure makes me hotter. I take him deeper, adding a hand, yanking his pants and boxers down then palming his balls. The way he starts to breathe unleashes a torrent, and now more than anything, I want release. I want him inside me. But I want more of this first, and I want him to see it. I want him to want me. To need me.
With his cock still in my mouth, I spin the skirt around to unbutton and slide it down, then off. I look up at him, licking the shaft, as I slide my panties aside and slip two fingers into me. As he pants, I move faster, on him and me. My fingers move up, on the throbbing button of my clit. Ten seconds later, I come with his dick down my throat.
His breath heavy, Chadd pulls me up. But I’m in charge here, not him. I’m pursued; he’s the pursuer. I have what he wants, so I slide my panties down as he shoves his pants to his ankles, not bothering to remove them. Then I’m up on the sink, the porcelain cold against my ass. I spread my legs, showing him what he’s missing. I’m throbbing with need, in the honeymoon between orgasms. I’ll be blushing hard, the way his shaft is, the way his balls are up tight against him as everything clenches, his length coming closer and touching me until I can feel its heat at my entrance.
“Fuck me,” I say. Hating the sound of my voice. Hating that I want it, that I want him, like this. Hating the way things have turned out. Hating what I’m helpless to resist, and who I’ve become.
When he doesn’t do as I say, I grab his shaft with one hand while I wrap the other around to grip his firm ass. I guide him inside, then tip my head back against the mirror, eyes closed, as he fills me.
Chadd pulls off his shirt. He’s as built as I’d imagined, a six-pack visible and hard when I touch it. I trail my fingers down, touching his root, feeling the back of my own hand slap my clit as he thrusts. I can tell he’s almost already there — and just like that, thinking about it, I come hard as he runs his fingers across my bare breasts. And as I clamp down on him, he moves faster and breathes harder, and then he pulls out to finish, apparently at least a little wiser than the encounter that got me in trouble the first time.
He moves to grab paper towels, but I already have them and am wiping myself clean. Because the lust lingered for a few seconds, but only that. Now that it’s over, regret descends like a hammer. Yes, the tension is gone, for now. But the shame of breaking my oh-so-recent resolution for minutes of pleasure won’t be going anywhere.
I won’t look at him. I get down from the sink, practically rummaging like a blind woman. My hands find my clothes, but he’s already at the door. I hear a click, knowing that if he opens it now, anyone coming out of the opposite men’s room will see me in all my splendor.
“I’ll go first,” he says.
The door opens a crack as I flinch back, but then something must hit C
hadd’s conscience because he turns, puts an arm around me, and kisses my cheek.
“Thank you,” he says then slips out to leave the door unlocked behind him.
Thank you.
Like I’m a hooker who was kind enough to give him a freebie, and gratitude is only polite.
CHAPTER 11
Grady
I pull off I-94 just north of Madison and decide to spring for a motel. It’s not a great one, because my income is never predictable and I like to think I’m smart enough not to blow my parents’ meager inheritance without thinking ahead. But when I get to Inferno, I’ll be staying at Ernie’s rent free. I hate the idea because the place will be rank with memories, but at least I can console myself with the fact that the bastard is finally dead.
The place is tiny but clean enough, and I don’t see any druggies or prostitutes hanging out looking for a good time. Really, it’s just another bump on the long American road. That’s something I discovered when I started rambling away from my old home: Most places are just places. If you’re sheltered, you’ll see anything off your normal center as suspect. But I’ve been everywhere now, and I’ve seen it all. The old me might have questioned a place like this, but the new me understands that the people who run it and the people who live nearby are just people. Everyone gets on as well as they can, and it’s not for me to judge them.
I pay, and then after I find my room, I cover Carl’s cage with a shirt from my backpack and sneak him inside. He’s a loudmouth in the car, but so far has settled down when we’re not moving. He’s also either loyal or frightened, and every time I’ve let him out he’s stuck by me like a dog. It’s as if he gets what this is, between the two of us. Carl can be my ward as long as he needs me, but the minute the cat decides he’d rather be on his own I’ll be inclined to agree and let him go.
The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) Page 6