Chapter 6 – CASH #2
Fucking Toby.
I hate that guy.
I hate how the longer she was with him, the smaller Glenna got. She stopped raising her hand in class. She didn’t do clubs anymore. Not even photography.
Sophomore year, photography club day was the highlight of my week.
Football practice ended the same time as the Shutter Bugs.
Toby always gave Glenna a ride home, but whatever he was doing on Tuesdays, he was always late to get her.
I’d make my buddies wait, and I’d pretend to play on my phone, but I’d be watching her sit on the school steps.
She didn’t have the data to waste, I guess, ‘cause she’d look at the woods or the cornfields past the parking lot.
Sometimes she’d have that sad look on her face, but sometimes when the weather was really nice, she’d look kind of dreamy.
Her lips would curve, almost a smile, and her cheeks would round up like snowballs.
Then Toby would pull up and the smile would disappear.
And then she quit photography club.
I don’t understand why Toby Guilfoyle didn’t appreciate what he had, but what I really, really don’t understand is why Glenna didn’t know she deserved better. I’d never have made her sit a second on the stairs. I ain’t careless with what’s mine.
Or so I say. I made mistakes tonight.
I settle onto the sofa, stretching my legs, trying to get comfortable. This thing is old and lumpy and short. My feet hang over the arm, and the apartment is drafty as hell. I’m not gonna be sleeping tonight.
Guess I can lie here and count my regrets. First, I shouldn’t have invited the crew. I figured it’d send a message if folks see Glenna hanging out with us. She’s not shunned, and she’s got people who will throw down if anyone messes with her.
I didn’t count on Addison being a bitch, but I should have.
I’ve never taken her up on any of her many offers to “Netflix and chill” ‘cause I was worried it’d mess things up.
Holden has a thing for her. I just figured when I texted everybody that I needed a show of support, and she said “in,” she was in.
I should’ve taken Glenna on a real date. Like dinner. Or roller skating. Now our first date will always be “the fakest worst date ever.”
And then—can’t forget—I came within seconds of delivering a beatdown to Matt Cooper. Poor dude. His wife leaves him, he’s finally worked up the courage to get back on the horse, and then I mop up the floor with his ass in the middle of Birdy’s?
Thank God that Holden talked me out of it. If Matt had touched her, though—I’d have more regrets, and I’d probably be cooling my heels at the station house instead of freezing my feet off in Glenna’s living room.
I haven’t almost lost my shit like that since high school. It was ninth grade. Andrew Ryman. He ran with our crew, but he was always thickheaded. He didn’t get the message that I messed with Glenna. No one else.
He drew a dick on her locker and wrote “Dobbs slobbers knobs” under it.
The dumbass got the wrong locker section .
Not number . Not row . He was on the wrong damn floor of the building.
I beat his ass in the parking lot after the game in front of everyone, and on Monday, my boys made sure he scrubbed the graffiti clean before first bell.
I got a five-day vacation, and Dad made me spend it shoveling horseshit, but Bill the manager was cool, so he let me do whatever I wanted after I got the work done. I spent a lot of time fishing that week.
So, all’s well that ends well, as my grandma used to say, but it still freaks me out thinking how far gone I got with that little punk. If Logan and Jaxson hadn’t pulled me off, things might’ve gotten out of hand. I don’t have a temper, but that night I was out of control.
If Glenna ever heard about it, she never thanked me. I guess she wouldn’t see much difference between graffiti on her locker and drawing mustaches on her photos. That was a dumb thing to do. I was a dumb kid.
Still am. ‘cause what else is my excuse for letting her ride me tonight?
I should’ve put her gently back in her seat. Told her I’m interested, but not in the Ram. I should have cut her off when I noticed how many empty shot glasses she had in front of her.
Regrets, man. I got more than a few.
Tomorrow, we’ll talk about it. I’ll make it right.
If I don’t get hypothermia before morning.
Guess Toby fucking Guilfoyle doesn’t know how to weatherproof a goddamn window, either.
* * *
I wake up on my stomach on the rug. My feet and my fingers are frozen stiff. Glenna’s rummaging around in the kitchen.
It’s early. Rosy-yellow sunbeams are coming through the old wavy-glass windowpanes.
Glenna’s hair is sticking up in the back. She’s wearing a long white T-shirt and pajama bottoms with snowflakes on them. Her ass looks amazing. Heart-shaped perfection.
I hop to my feet, shaking my hands to get the feeling back. “It’s cold as shit in here.”
She startles, shrieks, and slams herself back against the counter, clutching her chest with her good hand. “Jesus Christ! I thought you left. You weren’t on the sofa.”
“I was on the floor.”
There’s a pause. “Why?”
“Fell, I guess.” I stalk over to the kitchen. “You making coffee?”
“Why are you still here?” Grumpy, defensive Glenna is back in full force.
I can’t wait to see demanding, hungry Glenna again.
I adjust my hard-on as I slide onto a stool at the breakfast bar. “We need to talk.”
Her makeup’s all smudged around her eyes like a raccoon. Guess she didn’t “take her face off” like my mom does. When I was little, I was low-key terrified that Mom really did peel it off at night and hang it from a hook or something. I knew she didn’t, but—I had a kid’s imagination.
In the kitchen, the coffee maker burbles. Sweet.
“You use the same coffee you use at the shop?” Peace, Love, and Beans’ brew is dope. Except for the cup she poured me the other day. That shit was weak.
“Yeah. Hold on.” She rubs her eyes. “Why are you here?”
“We gotta talk about last night.”
Her face screws up like she smells a fart, and she zombie walks to the fridge. “Oh, no, we don’t. We don’t need to speak of that ever again.”
Her head disappears, and she reemerges with creamer.
“I take mine black.”
She glares at me. Was that presumptuous?
“If I give you coffee, will you leave?”
“After we talk.”
She groans. “Seriously, we don’t have to talk about anything. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Done. Finished. Over.”
She pours me a cup in a mug that has a picture of a camera and reads I shoot people .
She sets it in front of me a bit too vigorously. Coffee splashes over the rim. I hold it up and point. “Hey, look. Irony.”
She glares.
“Get it? ‘Cause I got you shot?”
She blinks.
“Too soon?”
She sighs really long and goes for the paper towels.
“Don’t worry. I got it.” There are napkins on the breakfast bar. I swipe up the spill while she makes herself a cup. “But I don’t want you to be sorry. And it’s definitely going to happen again.”
Her back is to me, and she tenses, her shoulders shooting up to her ears. Then, after a moment, she slowly begins to stir her drink again, the spoon clinking against the sides. I smother my smile.
She’s so freaking cute.
“I am, and it’s not,” she repeats and turns to face me.
Her chin’s up in the air. She’s so prickly. Always has been except for the few times I’ve seen her let go. Racing around the woods with Dina. Sitting on the school steps, watching the birds or the leaves changing color. Last night in my truck.
Thank goodness for the counter. I’m obscenely hard, and I don’t want to freak her out any more than I already have.
I can’t argue what the future will hold, so I ask, “Why are you sorry?”
“I was drunk.” Her chin drops. She can’t meet my eyes. “I shouldn’t have, um, climbed on you.”
“I was the sober one. I should have stopped you.”
“No.” She’s shaking her head. “That’s not your responsibility. We’re each responsible for our own actions.”
She sounds like she’s quoting someone. I guess I agree in principle, but that’s not how this works. She’s a girl. A woman. If she’s drunk, and I’m sober, it’s on me to make sure nothing happens. That’s rule one.
“No. You got it wrong. I’m the one responsible. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything.” Her blush darkens, and she hides behind her coffee cup, taking a big sip.
“I didn’t stop you. I let you do it, and I fucking loved it.” I need her to be clear on that.
She chokes a little. “Well, we’ll have to agree to disagree. Just—I know that I was in the wrong, and I’m not going to do anything like it ever again.”
She sets down her cup and crosses her arms, her lips turned down so far that her chin dimples. She looks miserable. More than embarrassed. Ashamed.
Oh, hell no.
I scoot my stool back.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I stalk around the breakfast bar. She’s already flat against the counter, and the kitchen’s tiny. There’s nowhere for her to go.
“Evening things up.” I stop a few inches from her. Her pulse flickers in her neck. Her skin’s so pretty. So smooth. I want to touch it again.
But I don’t move too quick. We’re alone in her apartment. I’m hella bigger than she is. I don’t think of myself as intimidating, but Dad always drove home with us boys that stallions don’t think they’re shit either, but they’ll break your leg ‘cause they don’t know their own strength.
“What do you mean?” Her voice is wobbly, but not scared.
“You don’t say sorry. Nothing happened last night that I didn’t want really fucking bad. You can’t do things to me that I don’t like.”
She swallows. Her throat bobs. Her brown eyes are huge.
“You don’t get it,” she says.
“Then explain it to me.”
“I touched you without your consent.”
“I let you without your consent.”