She acted like she was reading, but it was obvious she was thinking. When she wasn’t speaking it seemed she was always contemplating her next barrage of questions. The toe of her faded sneaker tapping against seat cushion gave warning of her intention to attack me as soon as I took my last bite.
At the moment I finished my breakfast, she lowered the book.
“Are you done?” she asked.
I nodded toward my plate.
She set the book aside and slid to the edge of the booth. “When you first started coming in here, I thought you were going to ask my mom out on a date. After a year and a half, I’ve decided that’s not going to happen. You’re either not interested in her, or you’re here for other reasons.”
I had no sexual interest in her mother. In an effort to preserve my relationship with Charlee – and her mother – I gave the only response I felt I could.
“I’m in a relationship.”
It wasn’t completely true. In fact, it was a lie. Only because my efforts had yet to produce any meaningful results. Hell, the only one I found interesting enough to approach had recently run from my house screaming like her head was on fire.
“Figures,” she said, her voice conveying slight disappointment. “All the good guys are.”
Her gaze dropped to her feet. After a moment, she shot me an inquisitive look. “So, why are you here?”
My eyes thinned. I shifted my gaze toward the kitchen and considered my response.
The remote diner was the only place I’d found where good and evil didn’t reside. Only innocence existed, and I found comfort in relaxing into the pillow-like support it provided. My daily visit had become an important part of my recovery process. In one hour’s time, I cleansed myself of the previous day’s atrocities.
Regardless of Charlee’s desire to know more about me, I wasn’t comfortable explaining the intricacies of my life to a thirteen-year-old. Having the intellect of an adult didn’t dismiss the fact that there were some things I simply didn’t want her to know.
Her curious eyes and overactive foot poked at my conscience.
I took a sip of coffee and offered a simple response. “I’m not sure.”
“Like I said earlier. You’re full of crap.”
My eyebrows raised. “Duly noted.”
“I like you anyway, though.”
“I like you, too.”
I finished my coffee, gazed into the empty cup for a moment, and then stood. After tossing $30.00 onto the table, I folded my newspaper and tucked it under my arm.
“The book is about good and evil,” I said. “Right and wrong. It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird. Tom Robinson was the mockingbird.”
Using her thumb and forefinger, she made a pistol with her left hand, and saluted me with her right. “Have a good day, Atticus.”
I gave a sharp nod and brushed the wrinkles from my pants. “See you tomorrow, Scout.”
Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Three
Taryn
We were high school sweethearts. I was the homecoming queen, and he was the king. Although we never became legally married, we’d lived together long enough that it seemed so. Then, after eight years of togetherness, he came home from work and dropped a bomb.
The bomb.
He had a mistress. A pregnant mistress. The child she carried was their second.
Our relationship, in its entirety, was a lie.
My heart ached. So much that I couldn’t breathe. Or sleep. Or eat. A downward spiral ensued. The darkness I fell into had no bottom. For the first year that followed, my life was a disaster. I popped Xanax like I was eating popcorn at the movie theater.
I washed them down with tequila.
Days escaped me. Weeks. A month. And then, another. I came to my senses one night at the intersection of 9th and Choctaw, surrounded by pieces of two demolished automobiles and four shattered lives. Remarkably, short of a few memorable cuts and a sore knee, I was unharmed. Physically, anyway.
I often wish that wasn’t the case.
Three people that I loved ever so dearly were gone from my life, and there was no getting them back. I knew I needed to distance myself from the constant reminder that lingered over me in that small town. It seemed everywhere I went, someone was saying, I’m so sorry. So, with the trunk of my 10-year-old Acura filled with clothes, and my head filled with the dream of becoming an actress, I moved to California.
If the state were less populated, I would have landed an acting job. The 39 million people I had to compete with, however, left me feeling rather unqualified.
For four years, I settled with being a cheerleader for the San Diego Chargers football team. It was like acting, but with far less clothing. And money. The job wasn’t at all what I expected, paying only $75 per home game. It was a stepping stone to living life in Hollywood. I was sure of it.
Years passed, but Hollywood never came. During that time, my real job was a bartender. The winter I lost the cheerleading job, I realized bartending wasn’t for me. Working in a bar was the equivalent of having a heroin addict working in the pharmacy of a methadone clinic.
A year and $12,000 in student loans later, I became a licensed cosmetologist.
In other words, I was a hairstylist.
A 34-year-old single hairstylist.
I was sweeping a pile of golden blond hair into a pile when Stefanie walked past me. She was brunette, ten years younger than me, and cute. The kind of cute that earned her long awkward stares from men. Her face was that of a seventeen-year-old, but she had the body of a 24-year-old goddess. Her never ending nervous energy allowed her to work 8 hours a day, party for 12, and sleep 4.
I envied her.
She set a cup of coffee on the counter behind her work station. “Sorry I had to bail.” She glanced over her shoulder as she unlocked her cabinets. “How long did you stay?”
I dumped the hair in the trash and turned to face her. “Till close. You’re not going to believe this, but--”
“Believe what?”
“What happened.”
She spun around. “What?”
The lingering smell of her coffee almost caused me to hurl up my breakfast. “Cover that nasty thing up, or throw it in the trash. I’ll tell you when it’s gone.”
“I’ll finish it.”
“Hurry up. It’s going to make me barf.”
She finished the drink and started to toss it in the trash can we shared.
“Throw it in Carmella’s trash. I’m serious. You know I hate smelling that stuff.”
She rolled her eyes, tossed it in Carmella’s trash, and then returned. “Okay. What happened?”
“Okay. So, it’s almost closing time, and this guy had been checking me out. I started giving him the eye. You know, letting him know that I knew he was looking. Then, when I was going to the bathroom, he said something. He was so hot. Short dark hair, and these eyes.” I leaned the broom against my chair and let out a long breath. “They were like a shark’s eyes. Kind of grayish, and crazy sexy. He had this presence. It was weird. When he was talking, I just stared at his eyes like a complete idiot.”
She flopped into her chair and began swiveling back and forth. “What happened? Did you hook up with him?”
“Kind of,” I said. “But not really.”
“Sucked his dick in the parking lot, didn’t you?”
I hadn’t, but I wasn’t beyond doing so. In my overeager attempts to land a mate, I’d found myself in some questionable sexual situations.
I pressed my hands to my hips and did my best to act appalled by her comment. “No.”
“What happened?”
“He invited me over for drinks. He had this place on the beach.” I stretched my arms wide. “Like, a massive place. A mansion. The whole back side of it was glass--”
“Did it have an outdoor deck and pool and stuff?” she asked excitedly.
I searched my drunken memory bank and came up with nothing, but responded in the affirmative anyway. It wasn’t like a
ny of the details were going to matter.
“Big deck, and a huge pool, why?”
She continued swiveling. “Tell me you boned on the deck while listening to the ocean.”
“I’d love to. Seriously. But that’s not what happened.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What happened?”
“If you’ll let me, I’ll tell you. Stop interrupting.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“The place was like a hospital,” I said. “Spotless.”
Her face contorted. “What place?”
“His house.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was spotless.”
“His house?”
“Uh huh.”
“Okaaaay.” She leaned forward. “I thought we were talking about--”
“No. Like creepy spotless. Everything was white. White cabinets, white walls, white furniture. What wasn’t white, was glass. There wasn’t one picture on the walls. Not. A. Single. One.”
“Sounds like he was a clean freak.”
“He was a murderer,” I said authoritatively.
She planted her feet. Her spinning chair came to a screeching halt. “A murderer?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Her eyes shot wide. “What?” she whispered harshly. “A murderer?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
She relaxed and then shot me a sideways look. “I thought you were being serious.”
“I am. Kind of. I think I was so drunk I just flipped out with all the cleanliness. When I woke up this morning, I felt like an idiot.”
She shook her head in disbelief, and then looked at me. “So, you didn’t do anything?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
I slumped my shoulders. “Nothing.”
“A super-hot gray-eyed guy who had a mansion on the beach, and you didn’t do anything?”
I couldn’t tell her that I took off running while he was mixing a drink. I opted to provide a modified version of the truth.
“I just left.”
“You left? He’s all sexy and wanting to bone, and you just said, sorry, your place is too clean, I’m leaving?”
It all seemed foolish now that it was over, but at the time, I was sure he was planning to tie me up and skin me alive.
Despite my desire to keep what happened a semi-secret, somehow, the truth slipped out.
“He was mixing a drink in the kitchen, and I flipped out. I thought he was a serial killer, so I took off.”
“Took off? Like, how?”
“Grabbed my purse and ran out the front door. I may or may not have been screaming.”
“Seriously? That’s ridiculous. Even for you.”
I looked away. It really was ridiculous. Embarrassed by my drunken departure, I met her gaze and offered an apologetic response. “Yeah.”
She slid off the edge of the chair and shot me a long look of contempt. After folding her arms over her chest, she shook her head lightly. “And you wonder why you’re single.”
“I’ve got an overactive imagination,” I said. “It’s Netflix. I’ve got to stop binging on the cop shows. I’m drawn to detectives. They fascinate me.”
“It’s that one you watch with that FBI profiler. It’s gross. Stuff like that doesn’t happen.”
“I think it does.”
“It doesn’t.” She lowered herself into her chair. “Was he there when I was there?”
“I really don’t remember you leaving. What time was it?”
“You don’t remember? Seriously?”
“That Cindy bitch wanted a gray balayage, and she’s got black hair. I told her when she came in that it would take two or three sessions. After five hours, she decided to go back to black. Left me a ten-dollar tip. I was so mad. So yeah. I got trashed, sorry.”
“I’m glad you ended up with her. Joselyn used to do her hair. She bitches about everything. Always complains, but always comes back. People like that suck.”
The thought of upsetting anyone troubled me. I was a people pleaser to a point of fault. I’d accepted Cindy as a client, even knowing her inability to be satisfied.
“I want to make everyone happy. But, yeah. I was upset, so I got hammered. When did you leave?”
“It was 1:00-ish.”
“Yeah. He would have been there. He was the guy with the dark wash jeans, gray tee shirt, and short hair standing by the back door. Just kind of looking around. He said something when I went to the bathroom.”
She leaped from her chair. “Tattoo on his right arm?”
I didn’t have to think about it. He did have a tattoo on his right arm. One of a pitchfork, an anchor, and an eagle.
My response shot from my mouth. “Yeah. A pitchfork, anchor, and eagle.”
“Holy crap. His name is uhhm. Marcellus, or Marcus or something. He’s--”
“Marc. He said his name was Marc.”
“Oh. My. God.” Her eyes shot wide. “That’s him.”
“Him who him?” I asked excitedly.
“Remember Kate?”
I drew a blank. “No.”
“She was tall. Blond. Really quiet? Had a tattoo of a bunch of flowers that covered her left arm?”
Instantly, I remembered her. She was a very private and rather mysterious coworker that worked odd hours for an eccentric client base. Rumors were that she made ten-fold what the other stylists made due to her long list of wealthy clients.
“Oh. Yeah,” I said. “The girl who never really talked. Six-foot-tall and skinny.”
“That’s her. She went out with him for a while. He’s uhhm. Different. He makes that Christian Grey guy look like a preacher.”
An excited little bird began to flutter around in my chest. “What?”
“Seriously. She said he’s into all kinds of kinky stuff. I guess he’s nice. Really nice. Pretty demanding when it comes to sex, though.”
“What did she say about it? Was it crazy?”
“They never did it. They just talked about it. A lot. He got in her head and it really messed her up. She fell for him pretty hard. Then, he decided she wasn’t what he wanted. From what she said, I guess that’s why she moved to Monterrey.”
Being tied up, flogged, and then fucked stupid wasn’t something I’d ever participated in. I’d spent my fair share of time rubbing my clit while thinking about it, thanks to E.L. James.
“I feel like an idiot.” I kicked at a blond lock I’d left behind and then met her gaze. “Do you know if he goes in there all the time?”
“I’ve seen him in there a lot,” she said. “He comes in really late, stays for a while, and leaves. It’s like he’s looking for someone. Maybe to replace her, I don’t know. I’m not into that crap, but God, he’s hot, huh?”
“Hot? Yeah.” I pressed my knees together and let out a sigh. “Looks like I’m going to be hanging out in Mort’s for a while.”
Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Four
Marc
With a contemptuous look etched on my face, I watched as she walked through the bar. The closer she came to where I was standing, the more I realized how breathtakingly beautiful she was. Her hair, which she normally wore curly and blond, now hung from her head like sheets of wine-colored silk.
Her athletic arms swung back and forth with each meaningful step. Upon seeing me, her chin raised slightly. With her eyes fixed on mine, she maneuvered through the crowd of inebriated youth with a natural grace.
The first time I’d seen her was six months prior. It was her walk that initially captured my interest, but her hand gestures and incessant need to smile kept it throughout the evening. When she and her friends walked away at the end of the night, any hope I had of seeing her again left right along with her.
Now, it was her flowing hair – and the smirk she wore like a jeweled crown – that commanded my attention.
She walked right up to me. After clutching her purse to her chest, her lips parted slightly. “Can I buy you a dr
ink?”
I raised my glass and gave a slight nod. “I’m doing rather well, thank you.”
“Can I apologize?”
I dropped my gaze to her feet, and then slowly took in every inch of her athletic frame. A hint of her perfume edged its way between us. As the scent filled my nostrils, the memory of the first night I saw her came to the forefront of my mind. I locked eyes with her and took a shallow drink of my tonic and lime.
I lowered the glass. “If you tell me the complete truth, we can start over.”
“Can we?” she asked excitedly.
“If you tell me the truth,” I said, my tone flat and firm.
She looked away for a moment as she gathered the courage.
I could never be certain, but my experience with people told me she was exactly what I sought in a woman. At least I’d convinced myself so. Eager to determine if I was correct in my assumptions, I hoped she had the capacity to come clean on her ridiculous departure.
Her eyes met mine. “You don’t have any pictures on your walls. None. Anywhere. Where I grew up, the house was covered in family photos, pictures of parents, kids, everything. And, your place was so, I don’t know, spotless. It was just. Extremely clean. I had way too much to drink, and when I’m drunk, my mind gets really creative. I was afraid you were a mass murderer. Then, when you wouldn’t drink the other drink, I was convinced of it. So, when you went to mix another, I took off.”
It was one of the most ridiculous stories I had ever heard, and I’d heard many. I struggled to remain stoic.
“Mass murderer, huh?” I asked, my voice as indifferent as the expression on my face.
She nodded eagerly. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“You have quite an imagination.”
“I told you. When I’m shit-faced, I get creative.”
When I invited her over, I had no idea she was drunk. I’d watched her consume a few drinks over the course of the night, but she certainly didn’t appear drunk. I felt foolish for missing what I suspected were tell-tale signs. In my overeager attempt to get to know her better, I wondered what else had slipped past me.
“I didn’t realize you were inebriated,” I said.
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