Chapter 6 – CASH
CASH
I ’ve got Glenna in my arms, and I’m scared shitless.
I screwed up. I don’t know exactly how, but I definitely have ‘cause that’s what I do with this girl. I shoot myself in the foot. I’ve got the yips with her. Always have.
God, she’s so soft. She’s a noisy sleeper. She grunts like Granger does when he’s cornering a rabbit in his dreams.
Damn, but she’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. The moonlight is making the tiny diamond stud in her nose glitter, and her long eyelashes cast shadows on her skin. She looks like a fairy princess, but a solid one—one who can eat.
She’s got a good heft to her. She’s certainly not skinny. I learned that carrying her down the mountain. She’s all curves, except for her sweet little tits.
I want to touch her so bad, but that would be wrong.
What I’ve already done is wrong. You don’t mess with a drunk girl. Period. End of story. But she climbed in my lap. She rode my cock, touched me like she wants me.
And I’m going to hell ‘cause I let her. I can never do the right thing with her.
I know I’m an idiot, and I don’t use my head as much as I’m supposed to—Lord, if I had a dollar for every time Dad yelled “think!” at me—but no matter how hard I try, I can’t understand why I always make the wrong move with Glenna.
I’m good with women. I’ve never had trouble in that department.
Except for Glenna.
Back in seventh grade, how was I to know her dad had stopped shopping for groceries? I was just fucking around. Teasing. No one likes cafeteria food.
And if I’m being honest, I was butthurt ‘cause she’d stopped coming over to the house. Yeah, I was mad for Dina’s sake, but I was way madder for myself.
Glenna dropped us both like a hot potato, and then she walked past me in the hallway with her nose in the air like I didn’t exist.
I should’ve been confident enough to let it roll off my back. I was the one with all the friends. I was the one the teachers let get away with murder. Girls got their friends to ask me out, and I picked. I didn’t chase after them.
But I didn’t care about those girls. I cared about Glenna Dobbs, and she decided one day to pretend I was invisible. It stuck in my craw, so I was a dick to her. It didn’t make me feel any better, but it became a habit anyway. ‘Cause messing with her was the only way she’d acknowledge my existence.
It was immature bullshit.
It took me a couple years of watching her on the sly before I pulled my head out of my ass. I realized she wasn’t walking around like she was better than everyone—better than me. She just keeps herself to herself.
Glenna’s complicated, and I am not good with complication. I tend to oversimplify.
By the time I got things straight, it was way too late. She’d found Toby Guilfoyle, and she was clinging to that stuck up, long-haired, vest-wearing, hipster piece of shit like he was that door in Titanic .
I could whup Toby Guilfoyle one-handed.
I know for a fact he doesn’t know cars. I saw him on the side of the road with AAA, talking on his phone while a real man changed his tire. What’d Glenna do when she needed her oil changed? At least her dad knows his shit. He’s kept that van of his running for at least thirty years.
Does Toby Guilfoyle know what a crack shot she is? I bet he hates guns.
Does he appreciate the fact that she knows the mountain better than most anyone who doesn’t live on it? I’ve seen her photos. She knows Stonecut. She’s found places that Joe Carroll had to show me.
She’s got the softest skin. Silkier than silk.
And she’s so grumpy. Every time I see her sad, I have to mess with her until she’s mad instead. It’s not what I want to do. I want to fuck her ‘til she’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, but what else can I do? I’ve long since blown my shot with her.
Or maybe not.
She’s passed out in my lap. My thighs are going numb, but I ain’t moving. I gotta figure out how to stop her from freaking out when she wakes up a little more sober.
My mind is racing, and I’ve got nothing.
Maybe she’ll remember that I didn’t touch her. Much. That’s gotta count for something.
She’s gonna lose it. She’d probably be less mad if she could blame me for it. I could always tell her it’s not her fault ‘cause I’m irresistible to females. I feel like that won’t go over well. But it would make her mad enough so that she’ll take it easy on herself.
I’m really wracking my brains when she chokes on a snore and sits straight up, blinking.
“Where are we?” she asks.
“Birdy’s parking lot.”
“I’m tired.”
“I’ll take you home.” I move to help, but she just kind of dives over the armrest back into the passenger seat.
“Watch your arm.”
She struggles upright and fumbles for the seatbelt. “You watch your arm,” she grumbles.
That’s my girl.
The belt buckle clicks, so I turn the key and reverse out of the spot, trying to block out the fact that the cab reeks of pussy. Earthy. Mouth-watering. My jeans are damp with Glenna’s juices, and they stick to my thigh when I press the clutch.
I’m still hard as a rock. I was close to coming, but I didn’t dare let go. I was afraid to breathe lest she stop.
This woman owns me, and she has no idea.
“Turn here,” she says.
Is she giving me directions to her place? I know where she lives. I picked her up. Hell, she’s still drunk.
I turn where she says.
“You want to get coffee?” I ask.
I don’t want to take her home. I know I have to, but there’s a part of me that pretty much can’t . I’m a bear with my paw in a trap.
“Glenna? Coffee?”
Her eyes are open, but she still blinks and straightens at her name. “No, thank you. I want to go to bed.”
I want to lay her down, naked, on the fluffy comforter I spied through her cracked bedroom door when she went to fix her face.
I want to lick every inch of her creamy, curvy body.
I want to hoist her legs over my shoulder and feast. Hold them wide as I stroke my cock into her hot, wet hole while she hazily gazes into my eyes wearing a lazy, happy smile.
“You’re tired?” Obviously, but I want to hear her voice.
“I’m wasted,” she sighs.
Guilt lodges in my throat. I took advantage. Sitting there while she rides me is taking advantage, right? Jaxson and the boys would say no. Brice would say yes. Brice is a better man than me. He’d be right.
“I’m sorry, Glenna.”
“For what?” Her words are thick.
“For taking advantage of you.”
“When?”
“Just now. In the parking lot.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I don’t know what I’m doing. She’s not gonna remember this in the morning.
“But you should say sorry for everything else, too.”
“I’m sorry.” I am.
“Where’s Granger?” she asks.
Huh?
“Doesn’t he need to be let out?”
She’s worrying about my dog. I scrub my chest as I pull into a wide-open spot in front of her apartment building.
“He’s at Brice’s tonight. With his littermates.”
“There are more Grangers?” She flashes me a loopy, delighted smile, and my heart trips.
“Two of them. Brice has his brother Red Tail. Deja has his sister Fancy, the runt. There was a third. He lives with a dude up on the west peak.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“I like Granger’s ears. They flop.”
I do, too. I unbuckle and open my door, and of course, drunk Glenna doesn’t wait for me to come around. She tumbles out, eep-ing as she makes a bumpy landing on the sidewalk. At least she keeps her footing.
She doesn’t wait for me. She goes straight inside, slipping off her heels in the vestibule before she mounts the stairs. I follow.
She lives above the newspaper offices. I don’t like it. The entrance to the apartments is on the side of the building, not the front, and Fourth Street isn’t as well-traveled as Main. There’s no lock. You don’t need to be buzzed up. Nothing.
And she’s on the top floor. There are so many places a creep could hide. It gives me an ulcer just thinkin’ about it.
“How come the door downstairs isn’t locked?” I ask as we come to her apartment door.
“It’s Stonecut County,” she says over her shoulder and then roots in her bag for her keys.
“You keep this door locked.”
She rolls her eyes. “I live here.”
That doesn’t make sense, but I’m not trying to argue with a drunk girl. She fumbles a bit, but eventually, she gets the key in the lock. I follow her inside.
She stops in her little foyer and turns to face me. “What are you doing?”
Huh?
“I’m not sleeping with you.” Her face, already pink from the four flights of stairs, flushes cherry red. “I know we—um—uh—but I’m not—uh—”
“I know.” I sigh. She thinks I’m a jerk.
“So—” She stares meaningfully over my shoulder at the door.
I guess it’s a hint. I’m shit at taking hints.
“I’m gonna sleep on the sofa.” I jerk my chin toward her living room.
“Why?”
“It’s late. I’m tired.” That’s a bold-faced lie. I’m so amped, I could run a marathon.
“I’m not gonna change my mind.”
“Not asking you to. Tonight.”
She stares at me. I hold my ground.
If I leave now, I’m dead in the water. She’s gonna overthink shit, make it ugly in her head, and avoid me forever. I’m not gonna get another chance. So we’re gonna talk about it when she’s nice and sober.
“Whatever,” she finally shrugs and sets off across the apartment, weaving a bit, bumping her hip on a credenza and muttering, “Shit. Who put you there?”
She disappears inside her bedroom, and I hear a snick. At least that door has got a lock.
I plop down on the sofa, kick off my shoes, and make myself comfortable.
Her apartment is just like her—a cute jumble.
None of the furniture matches, and it’s all stuff you put together from a box.
She’s got pretty scarves draped here and there, and lots of photographs hanging on the walls in every kind of frame.
It smells like a headshop—not like weed—but that woodsy, herby incense. And there are things missing. Like, there’s a shelf that has four or five DVDs on it and the rest is empty. And in the dining room, she’s got a card table and a folding chair with a plastic seat.
Guess in the split, Toby got the movie collection and the dining room set.