Trash Daddy

5. Wakey Wakey

”Good morning,” a low, rich male voice says, breath tickling my ear. My eyes snap open as the bed shifts, and a presence looms over me. A pair of dark eyes bore into mine far too close for comfort.

I don”t think. Lashing out, my fist connects with the stranger”s forehead. A booming, ”What the fuck!” sends me scrambling backward. The stranger clutches his face. My hand hits a pocket of air where a bed should be. Yelping, I go down. Tumbling legs overhead, I end up in a heap, staring at fan blades hanging from an industrial ceiling. They circle lazily in the air.

As my heart rate slowly calms, memories from the previous night return and I internally groan.I just punched Luke in the forehead. Good job, Carmella. Fantastic. My shin throbs from the fall and from ramming it into the coffee table last night.

The usual wet concrete, urine, and saltwater smell that greets me with the sunrise has been replaced with clean, shampooed fabrics, musty cardboard, and orange furniture polish. I inhale deeply. Smooth carpet glides under my hands as I lie in a small aisle that runs between two beds. Maybe if I stay down here, he will forget I exist and I can go back to sleep.

”Fucking shit, woman, did you break your neck?” A handsome face pops over the edge of the mattress. A red patch of skin blossoms between Luke”s dark eyes. ”Are you alive?” he barks.

I heave a sigh and stare past him to the circling fans. ”Unfortunately, yes. Also, why were you in my bed?” Irritation spikes in my chest.

Luke coyly smiles down at me, a mischievous twist written into his dark eyes. Propping his head up, he stretches out on his side. ”Technically, you’re in my bed. In fact, all these beds are my beds. How did you sleep... in my bed.”

I roll my eyes.

He snorts. “Really, no appreciation for my joke? Fine, it”s almost ten. I tried yelling, even threw a pillow at you, but you kept snoring. A more hands-on wakey wakeywas needed.” He makes a squeezing gesture that I can only take as him honking my boobs.

I know disapproval is plastered all over my face when that charming grin grows broader and his eyes crinkle with glee. “I don’t snore, nor do I need a wakey wakey.”

Luke must live to torment the poor souls around him.

Slightly alarmed, and a little skeeved out about how hands-on he may have gotten, I check my clothes and relax after seeing they are all in place. It couldn”t have been much touching, if any at all. This dude is just a bullshit-talking, antagonistic a-hole.

Luke rises off the bed and stands between the two mattresses, towering over me. Propping myself up on my elbows, I shoo a frizzy, wavy lock out of my face and gaze up at him. Dressed in soft cream linen pants and a tropical green-leaf pattern button-down, he looks ready for a lunch date on a yacht, not selling used furniture.

My gaze flicks from the warm brown loafers and matching belt to the heavy gold jewelry on his fingers. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, in what I bet he believes to be a tasteful vee, showing off dark chest hair and gold chains. Forget the famous actor. He”s reminding me of those porn stars in those old grainy movies that Gloria”s ex used to watch in the living room when he thought I was asleep.

He”s giving me hardcore I”m-the-eldest-son-of-an-Italian-mob-boss-who-day-drinks-mai-tais-at-a-beach-resort vibes.Someone who shouts at the employees because his towels aren”t soft enough. Someone who has lived a better life than I have.

He”s also younger than I thought. And he’s just standing there grinning like a moron, eyes all crinkled up. Although, I kind of like it. It makes him appear warm, inviting, and less like the raging lunatic who felt me up while wielding a gun.With his sun-kissed skin, dark slicked-back wavy hair, and perfectly brushed mustache, I”m embarrassed to acknowledge how good-looking he is.

”I know I look good, but it”s impolite to stare.” He chuckles, cocking an eyebrow.

I flush, heat rising to my cheeks. Awkwardness swims through the moment, and I”m suddenly painfully aware of the worn, drab yoga pants and oversized shirt with holes in the back that drapes my body. My mouth twists. Why didn”t I wear one of the shirts he gave me?

Even if they were given out of pity. Even if it felt like a weird type of intimacy. Like something I”d share with an old friend, not the man whose store I broke into. At least then, I wouldn”t be lying on the floor at his feet, dressed like this and dying of shame.

Luke would never be caught dead in what I”ve had to pass as clothes.

I take a deep breath and exhale, trying to recover from my own runaway thoughts and actually get myself together. He mistakes my sigh as a response.

”Chop chop,” he says when I don”t rise to his baiting. ”I got us breakfast. We have forty-five minutes until the door opens, and I need to show you some things before the day starts. C’mon, shit, shower, shave, and then let”s eat.” With that, Luke spins with a flourish and walks toward the hallway leading to the kitchen.

My mouth falls open in disgust. Never mind! I take back every nice thing I nearly thought about this man.

I felt differently in the soft shadows of the night about my decision to stay. The thunder and patter of rain lulled me into being trusting. The late hour and haze he cast from his smoke clouded my judgment. I was afraid and wanted not to be scared, wet, or uncomfortable. So, I stayed. But in the harsh light of the day, with Luke”s sleazy rudeness at level ten, I feel like it”s time to move on. But move on to what?

After a few minutes of picking up my meager belongings and sniff-testing a few pieces of semi-clean clothing, a delicious scent of food wafts down the hall and onto the show floor. A loud gurgle sounds from my stomach. I gaze in the direction of the hallway and consider.

Breakfast with Luke and earning some cash is better than my pointless wanderings and police evasions, even if I have to endure his vulgarity.

Slinging my bags over my shoulder, I trudge across the show floor and push into the ladies” bathroom, eyeing the clean white tiles, gray stalls, and white countertop on a dark-gray cabinet which I’m sure holds the standard under-the-sink objects. I drop my stuff and open it to check. Stacked to one side sits extra toilet paper, paper towels, and a few cleaning supplies, with most of the space left unoccupied.

My personal effects smack the wall and sides of the cabinet as I toss them in and kick the door closed, keeping out a pair of plain blue jeans, underwear, a red spaghetti-strap tank top, and a few toiletries. The tank puts a lot of skin on display, but it”s the cleanest thing I own. Which is super unfortunate... considering Luke. The white countertop becomes my personal vanity as I slather on deodorant and rinse out my mouth. I dig around for my toothbrush, growing angry when I can”t find it. Great, one more thing I now need to buy.

No one tells you how easily things go missing when you live out of bags or how expensive it is to have nothing.

I pump the hand soap container several times and sniff the bubbles’ clean scent. ”It”ll do.” I shrug. Lathering the frothy white foam onto my face, I scrub hard, rather enjoying the tight, squeaky feeling it leaves on my skin.

A pink bottle of cheap cucumber-and-mint body spray sits next to the mango-punch lotion I five-finger discounted from the drugstore the other day. I squirt a white glob into my hand from the lotion bottle, and the greasy texture isn”t appealing, but it smells divine. I rub until it absorbs into my arms and face. Fine mist falls around me as I spritz myself with the perfume and pop off the top of my deodorant.

Crumbling chunks of antiperspirant skitter across the countertop as the plastic anchor falls out and hits the floor. I grab the anchor and smear what”s still left into my armpits. My eyes catch on myself in the mirror. “One day, this won’t be your life anymore,” I promise.

As I yank a brush through my blonde waves and curls, they frizz with static and shock me a few times before I finally get fed up and wet down the brush, the water smoothing my waves. Gathering all my locks, I twist and shove them into my favorite matte purple claw clip, teasing out a few loose strands. I evaluate the look in the mirror. The tips that jut up from the clip are a little spiky, but the little wavy pieces I left down prettily frame my face. I pick at the spikes.

They weren”t always so rough or dry. I mourn the time when I had toothbrushes and real perfume. When my waves lay softly and my mom brushed them for me. A time with full refrigerators, when being skinny was just something the girls in grade school talked about but didn”t really understand.

I didn”t realize you could be too skinny. I didn”t know many things back then, but I do now.

And life”s little lessons were all hard-earned.

Little pieces of ripped-out dry hair decorate the counter when I snap out of my morbid thoughts. Get it together, girl; breakfast and money are waiting.

I smear some concealer over the dark circles on my eyes and cover a few red splotches before pulling out the only pink lipstick I have, using it as lip color, blush, and eyeshadow all-in-one. It doesn”t do my skin tone justice, making me look more like beach Barbie than a no-nonsense business babe, especially with all my boobage on display. I would kill for a hoodie and debate putting on something dirty.

My prized possessions are my gold hoop earrings. They glimmer, catching the overhead lights as they dangle from my ears. All my tanned skin is a bit too sexy for breakfast, and I don”t mean it to be, but there is nothing to be done for it until I can wash some clothes. Slipping on my shitty Converse, I take a look at the final product. I put my hands on my hips and admire the outfit before tucking the tank top into my jeans. That should do it. I”m ready to spend the day with the dude who saw me half-naked and pinched my nipples, I think.

Fuck my life.

Alow whistle and appraising eyes greet me as soon as I enter the functional kitchen. Luke sits in the chair I occupied last night, facing me at the little white folding table we had noodles at. An empty to-go box covered in crumbs and gravy sits before him. My face turns crimson at his appreciative eyebrow wiggles, but I cover it with a dismissive shake of my head and roll my eyes. The smell of coffee and food is divine. I spy the full dark pot and make my way over as steam rises from the brew.

Luke”s voice wraps around me as I pour a cup. “What”s cooking, hot stuff? Nothing because this man already got you breakfast. Come sit down and eat. Actually, wait, keep standing there.” I hear the shutter of a camera.

Spinning around, I lock on the image of Luke kicked back in his chair, his phone aimed at my ass, and seeing him snapping photos immediately ignites my temper. I haven”t even been in the room a full minute yet. “I will throw this hot coffee on you! Watch me.”

Luke busts out in a belly laugh and slips his phone back into his pocket before holding up his hands. ”Alright. Alright, peace. I was only commemorating your first day on the job, caramel drop.”

I swear to God. If he does that again, I”ll dump this whole pot in his lap and shatter his phone. Also, caramel drop? Eww.

Never in my life has a man just taken photos of me so casually. I”m not inexperienced with men. I even have a kind-of boyfriend, Tommy. But they”ve never been so blunt or aggressive about their intentions. Luke is just a whole new level of I don”t even know.

How do I interact with a stranger who I know would bend me over the kitchen table and fuck me senseless if I so much as hinted at it? I avoid men like Luke, troublemakers, flashy smooth talkers, fuck-boy arrogant types, for good reason. ”You make me feel like I need full body armor and a shield,” I snap at him and walk over to the table where a white Styrofoam food box sits.

He offers me a megawatt grin. ”All you had to do was say you”re into roleplay, baby. I got some wigs.”

My eyes lock with Luke”s. His dance with delight and mischief, and mine are probably calling for blood. He rolls his to the ceiling. ”C”mon, Carmella, crack a smile already. You”re too serious for such a beautiful woman.”

Bitterness gentled by sweet creamer runs over my tastebuds as I drink the coffee. I will not be flattered by this man. ”I can be both beautiful and serious.”

He just smirks at me, eyes all crinkly.

I pop open the to-go container in front of me, expecting something cheap, like a breakfast burrito or eggs. Instead, I find a massive chicken fried steak smothered with sausage gravy, a large scoop of skillet-fried hash browns, a biscuit with a packet of jam, and another container of more gravy.

My lips open in surprise. Mouth watering, I look up at Luke, and he eyes me with wolfish delight. ”Thought you”d like something more substantial than noodles, and I don”t have shit here. Gran’s has the best breakfast in White Cove. If you like her cooking, we can eat there again. Try the biscuit.”

I nod, bite into the crumbly bread, and nearly moan. It”s lightly sweet and warm inside with a layer of salty crunch on the outside. He”s right. The biscuit is fantastic. ”So good,” I mumble with a full mouth. He watches me eat, looking extremely self-satisfied, but I don”t care. I dig in, unable to help the sinful moan that comes naturally at the explosive state of savory fried coating soaked in steak juices. Fuck me, that”s good.

I inhale my plate in the most unladylike manner, but I”m not trying to impress Luke. We eat in silence. Well, mostly silence. I can”t help but express how good the food is with a series of orgasmic eye rolls and moans. I sigh—better slow down. I don”t want to puke on his nice shoes. I consider my companion while weighing my choices.

Luke gives off chaotic energy and stranger-danger vibes, but he could’ve called the cops last night. Could”ve raped me. He could’ve killed me.

Instead, he tried to give me nice clothes, brought me this feast, and was excited to share his favorite biscuit with me. Which is fair because it’s a damn good biscuit.

But I”m still slightly salty about being caught and felt up. It was embarrassing and stupid. Worse, it could have been the end of everything, but Luke let me sleep in a bed instead. He”s feeding me, promising me money, and, for the most part, treating me decently. Things could be a lot worse than some handsome pervy guy with money wanting to dick me down. A lot worse.

I don”t want to go back to sleeping on the streets, constantly being vigilant and worrying about my safety. It”s exhausting and depressing. Not every drifter is your kindly drunk grandpa type; some of them are downright crazy violent. I hate being hungry all the time. It makes me grumpy. The cold and the rain suck as well, especially when the sky is dumping on me and I know I can”t go to a shelter or women”s home. Not that I would want to. Those places make it easy to be found. I can”t legally get or keep a job either. No ID, driver”s license, or birth certificate.

Sometimes, I wonder what”s the point of trying when it gets you backed into an even tighter corner. I”ve fallen through the cracks of life, and when I vanish altogether, they will just roll my body into the morgue as a Jane Doe. A cold shiver of fear runs the length of my frame.

”Will that hold you over until dinner?”

Luke”s voice dislodges the image of me laid out on an autopsy table alone, without anyone to grieve me except maybe Tommy, but that”s only if they can identify me. My aunt Gloria probably wouldn’t even tell him.

Luke looks at me expectantly, phone in one hand and cigarette in the other, smoke swirling up and around him. He’s been fixed onto his screen for the last few minutes.

”Huh?” I ask.

”Will that keep you full until dinner? Then we can go get some groceries after work.”

”Oh, yeah. Yes, I”m good.” I scrape the last couple of bites into my mouth, enjoying the crunchy, salty potatoes.

I”m better than good. I”m stuffed, but I no longer care—better to be uncomfortably full. The cold loneliness that had settled in my chest warms unexpectedly at Luke”s inclusion and thoughtfulness. We. We will grab dinner and groceries later.

When I lean back in the chair, my stomach pouches out with a giant food baby and I giggle.

Luke gives me a warm smile. Dude smiles a lot.

”I”m glad you enjoyed it,” he says, setting down his phone and taking a drag from his cigarette.

”So much. Thank you.”

He nods. ”Good. C”mon, let”s open the doors. I’ve got a few things to tell you about.”

I groan but rise with him from the table. He passes me a bottle of cold water that he snags from the fridge and takes one for himself. The coolness in my hands makes me want to chug it greedily, but I don”t. Exercising self-restraint, I sip it normally, grab my cup of coffee, and follow Luke onto the show floor.