Chapter 3
Tammy toldme Ralphie came after me that night at Clamatis, but I never expected to see him again. He’s an NHL superstar. I’m the daughter of a plumber who makes half her income pouring liquor straight into people’s mouths. We aren’t cut from the same cloth. Still, it was flattering that he wanted to talk to me again.
It almost made up for the incoherent drunk texts I got from Mr. Suddenly Wants A Label Now That Someone Else Appears Interested. It”s wearing on me more and more that Chet decided we were in a relationship when he doesn’t treat me any better than a booty call most of the time. I can count the times I’ve seen him between 9 a.m. and 9 p.m. on one hand. I don’t especially want to be alone, but surely I deserve more than being strung along by the likes of Chet Daniels.
As if I needed a reminder that there are still nice guys out there, the big broody hockey player was on my flight. I was pleasantly surprised that he was more conversational than the last time I saw him. In fact, I almost dropped the flute I was holding when he made his joke about body shots. Something tells me he doesn’t joke often.
I was surprised when he asked me about the frog I gave to the crying little boy. Not because he was watching me—I could sense the weight of his stare the entire flight—but because no one besides my family has ever talked about crocheting with me.
After one of my so-called friends laughed in my face at a beach party when I told her I crocheted my cover-up, I stopped mentioning it. Anytime Chet sees my supplies, he says I’m ‘too young and hot to be doing old lady shit.’ But here is this big hunk of Czech man candy complimenting it and asking to know more. I don’t know what to do with that.
Despite the almost five-hour flight, we were only able to talk a handful of times. Weekday travelers are extra needy, and that group was no exception. I’m thankful that I am off for a few days after the return flight this morning. I got home too late to work at Two-One-Oh, which I count as a blessing. I could use a break, especially since I’ll be at Clamatis tomorrow night.
Taking advantage of Madison’s absence, I curl up on my couch to watch Big Bang Theory. I love a show that has a bubbly blonde surrounded by unlikely friends. On this show, her brainiac friends see her for more than her appearance—most of the time. They treated each other with respect and kindness despite her not being as book-smart as them, and she even taught them some lessons along the way.
Shifting through my crocheting supplies, I pull out a half-finished bunny to replace the frog I gave away. I end up putting it back in the bag and searching for a new pattern on Pinterest. I could use a challenge. Seeing a beanie with a cute pom pom, I think it may be the ticket. And if I happen to choose the colors of the LA Crush, that is purely a coincidence.
The club is wild tonight.A guest DJ is in town, and he brought his supermodel girlfriend and her posse. I’ve never seen the VIP section this packed. It was too busy to snag Chet and his friends a table. Based on the buzzing from my smart watch, he is still pissed about it. I can’t help that paying customers pre-booked the booths, not that he’ll care.
As usual, I flit from table to table to make sure everyone is taken care of. I chat with a few models, who are nicer than I expected, and some MLB players who came out after their game. I tell them about Rob and to be on the lookout for him in a few years. They tried to get my number in the name of ‘advising’ him, but even I’m not dumb enough to fall for that trick.
Back in the locker room, I sigh as I take off my heels and change into comfy clothes. I space out the entire drive home, thinking about how excited I am to see my bed. My evening plans are dashed when I spot an obnoxiously expensive car idling in the parking space outside my apartment. Of course, Chet parked in my spot, forcing me to park in the creepy corner. Eyeing my front door, I wonder if there is a way to sneak past him, but the door of his Audi opens as I approach.
Blowing out a raspberry, I face the music of whatever his issue is today. At least I’m not alone as I make the longer-than-it-should-have-been walk to my apartment. Clocking his pinched expression, I wonder if I ever found him hot or just craved the attention. He’s in decent shape and dresses well—if finance bro is your type—but the longer we’ve been ‘together,’ the less attractive I’ve found him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask exasperated.
“I wanted to make sure my girlfriend made it home.”
Oh, that’s sweet.
“And didn’t end up in bed between whatever overgrown jocks you were slobbering over all night.”
There it is. I should have seen the insult coming, but it still stings. You can say a lot of bad things about me, but that I would be unfaithful isn’t one of them. And last time I checked, despite calling himself my boyfriend, we never had the exclusivity talk. I’d point that out, but it would only prolong this confrontation, and I desperately want to shower and sleep. Exhausted from a long slip, my filter fails and uncharacteristic sass slips through.
“Did you drive all the way across town to be a dick?” I snap. “If you think that lowly of me, why are you wasting your time?”
“I’m wasting my time because I see your potential.” Ouch. I know I said it first, but I don’t want to be considered a ‘waste of time.’
“Potential for what?”
“To be the ideal wife. You’re hot, a great cook, and stacked. If you could tone down your personality and stop waving your tits in the face of every rich dude you see, you could be something.”
“Tone down?” I repeat. I should probably be more upset about the other things he said, but that part stuck out in my mind. “What do you mean by that?”
“You’re too much, ninety-nine percent of the time. Too loud, too bright, too perky. You would be the perfect mate if you learn to be more demure, less everything else.”
‘The perfect mate?’ The audacity of this man. I can’t believe he has the gall to want perfection from me. The man is balding, drunk half the time, and living way above his means. He has no room to talk.
“Again, why are you with me if that’s what you think of me?”
“I’m no quitter. I’ve already put so much work into training you. I’d be a shame to throw in the towel now.”
“Training me?” I shriek, not caring if I wake up my neighbors.
“Calm down! See, this is what I mean about being too loud. And yes, training you. You think you cut out bread and stopped wearing red lipstick on your own? That was all me, honey.”
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. He has been ‘training’ me, or at the very least molding me. And I let him without realizing it. I cut back on gluten when he suggested it would help with my acne flare-ups. I stopped wearing red lipstick when he mentioned it was ‘too cliche.’ That fucker has been manipulating me for months.
Mistaking the shock for something else—gratitude, maybe?—he strokes the side of my face as I recall other ways he’s been controlling my life like when he convinced me a CRV was a better investment than the Beetle I wanted. He also talked me out of applying for an international promotion because he ‘wouldn’t get to see me as much.’
Rage courses through me as I push him away. “Consider your pet project over, Chet. I deserve someone who likes me for me. Not who wants to engineer me into some idealized non-person.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, babe. You’re not breaking up with me. I’m the best you’ll ever get.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I mutter, entirely over his shit. Walking past him, I march toward my door. Before I make it out of reach, he grabs my wrist and yanks me back, hard.
“I’m not done talking to you, Morgan,” he spits in my face. “I sure as fuck am not about to be dumped by some cosmetology school dropout.”
“I—”
“I’m still not done,” he sneers, tightening his grip. “That mouth is only good for one thing, and it isn’t talking. If you think I’m going to let your little temper tantrum ruin my image by having you break up with me, you have another thing coming. You’re lucky a guy of my status gave you the time of day.”
I whimper at his painful hold, but he doesn’t loosen it. The ferocity in his expression isn’t something I’ve experienced before—from him or any man. My dad may have yelled at me as a kid, but even when I took his car out for a joyride at fifteen, he didn’t spew this much vitriol. The energy pulsing off Chet is scaring me. I need to get away from him. Before I have to devise a plan, the door beside mine opens.
“Hey assholes, people are trying to sleep,” my neighbor, Darren, yells. Darren moved to LA to be an actor but grew up in Nebraska. He’s what he likes to call ‘farm strong.’ He stays fit thanks to his day job in construction. Chet’s lean but lacks the muscle Darren has on full display in all his cut-off-sweatpants-glory.
I don’t stick around when Chet drops my arm to see how the conversation ends. I hightail it inside and lock the door behind me. Crawling into bed without changing, I cradle my arm and cry myself to sleep. The tears aren’t over losing Chet. That’s a relief more than anything. I cry because he managed to find all my insecurities and pick open the scars that covered them.
Days ago,I would have told you I wanted a break from work. Today, working is all I want to do. I took as many extra trips as possible while staying under regulations to get out of LA. Chet hasn’t shown up at my house since Darren told him to get lost, but he has been blowing up my phone.
I blocked his number, but he still finds ways to contact me. For someone who has a day job, he sure has a lot of free time to harass me. To say he isn’t taking the breakup well would be an understatement. As mad as I am that he put his hands on me, it’s the kick I needed to never get back with him again.
We had been on-again-off-again for a while but are completely off now. I’m not the best at stopping men from hurting me emotionally, but physically? That’s something I won’t put up with. I’m embarrassed it got that far. I had to cancel dinner plans with my parents because I was nervous they might see the bruises.
I also missed a video call with Rob because as much as I love my little brother, he tends to be overprotective. He’d be able to tell something was off, and I don’t need him blowing off his team to fly here and beat up Chet, no matter how satisfying that would be.
Today’s extra shift means I am once again serving champagne in first class when a pair of navy eyes lock with my lighter ones. A genuine smile takes over my face for the first time in days. Ralphie gives me his best imitation of a friendly greeting until his expression morphs into something more serious—something lethal.
Peering down, I realize his gaze is locked on my wrist. The bracelets I wore to hide the bruising slid up, exposing enough of the purple marks that someone paying attention could determine what they are. When his eyes flit back up to mine and his nostrils flare, I know I won’t be able to brush off this conversation with him the way I have with everyone else.