15. Delia
CHAPTER 15
delia
I fishtailed out of Hunter's driveway, frantically blinking tears out of my eyes as I sobbed. A horn blared angrily; I jerked the wheel to get back in the correct lane and then gunned it. I barrelled north, away from town, away from everyone and everything, hating myself, hating Hunter, hating love, hating my body, hating the empty, gnawing pit in my chest where my heart should be.
My phone rang: Dad. I ignored it.
It rang again: Mom. Ignore.
Finally, it rang a third time: Emerson.
For her, and only for her, I answered. "I don't want to talk about it, Sunni."
Her laugh was amused. "I didn't even say anything."
I sniffled, trying to slow the sobs that wracked me. "Th-then…what do y-you w-want?"
"Wait, hold up, are you… crying ?"
"Yes," I answered in a miserable little voice.
"What? Why?"
"I just said I don't want to talk about it."
"We don't have to talk about it, but you do have to tell me everything."
"That's fucking stupid. Telling you everything is talking about it."
"Darn. You caught me." She sighed. "Dee, sugar-tits. Talk to mama."
"You're not my mama."
"Yeah, but you didn't answer the phone when she called."
“So they did sic you on me."
"Possibly. I plead the fifth."
“Which means Hunter called my father, and they called you when I wouldn't answer."
"Ding-ding-ding." She sighed. "C'mon, Dee. Pull over and tell me all about it."
I groaned in frustration, but I knew she wouldn't stop hounding me till I told her—she'd fly up here if she had to. "Fuck—fine. Hold on."
I pulled off the highway and onto a scenic overlook. I shut the engine off and rolled the windows down, and then spent a moment trying to collect myself.
After a minute or two, I let out a shaky sigh. "We finally fucked, that's what happened."
"And this leads you to hysterically sobbing…why?"
"I…I don't know. I just…I freaked out."
"Where are you?"
"Hell if I know. North of town. I don't know. I just…I fucking ran, Sunni."
"You're gonna have to elaborate, sweetie."
"At first, it was…honestly, it was the hottest fucking experience of my life." I slammed my head back against the headrest. "That's not an exaggeration, Emerson. Our sexual chemistry is fucking insane . He can make me come so fucking hard, so fucking fast, so many fucking times…I swear it's sorcery."
"Okay…"
After putting the phone on speaker and resting it on my thigh, I covered my face with both hands. "And his cock? Em, you don't even know. I know you said Hayden is packing, and I'm happy for you, but holy Jesus, Hunter's dick is…god." I sighed, rubbing my face. “It’s Goldilocks. I mean, seriously, if that man's penis was even a fraction bigger, and I’m talking length or girth, it'd be too big. As it is, I can barely get my mouth around it. I deep-throated him a few times and nearly gagged."
Emerson snickered. “You don't have a gag reflex."
"Exactly."
"Jesus. And…did you actually have sex with him?"
"YES! Why do you think I ran away?"
"It was too good?"
"I'll never be able to have sex with anyone else ever again."
“Okay, so…I'm not hearing a reason for running away. Not only can Hunter Fucking Hawkins, a famous billionaire, make you come, he can give you multiple orgasms, enjoys doing so, you have wicked chemistry with him, and he has a magical dong, and the sex was the best you've ever had."
"It was fast, Em. Like, the actual sex. The foreplay was…fuck, it was fucking insane, babe. But the actual sex? A couple of minutes at most. And I'm fucking ruined . He’s not just the best I've ever had, he’s the best I will ever have. Better than all the sex I’ve ever had, combined. Plus masturbation."
"You're not doing a very good job of selling your reasons for running away, Delia." Emerson sighed, a long, gusting, sympathetic breath. "You're scared."
"Fucking terrified."
"Dee, you know I love you, but girl —you're an idiot."
I gasped. "EMERSON!"
"You are! You're being stupid. Beyond stupid. Like, is there something you're not telling me? Did he, like, say something cruel? Call you an ex's name? Stealth you? Like, there has to be something. You've been looking for a guy who can give you orgasms and isn't a lying, cheating, lame-ass scumbag your whole adult life. Now you finally find one, who is, let me repeat, a fucking BILLIONAIRE , and you have what was, according to you, the best sex of your life…and you run ?"
I swallowed hard. "No, he didn't say anything mean. He didn't stealth me because we didn't use a condom in the first place. He’s…he's amazing, Em. Smart, successful, hardworking, hot, sexy, confident…the list is endless."
"Wait, wait, wait. Girl— GIRL ! You fucked the man raw ? The first time you fucked him, you fucked him bare ?"
"Yes?" I answered in a tiny whisper.
"As far as I know, you've never had bare sex in your life. You swore you never would until you met the man who you'd let put a baby in you." She sounded utterly shocked. "Did you tell him that?"
“No! Jesus. I didn't tell him that—I told you that when I was eighteen and no one else.”
"I…I'm speechless. That was your one hard and fast rule." She blew out a breath. "What was it like?"
I sniffled. "I know. I…I was crazy, Em. He edged me until I was foaming at the mouth. And then I edged him until he almost came everywhere. I don't know what I was thinking. But my god, it felt so fucking good." I covered my face with both hands and screamed, stomping my feet on the footwell. "I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't —that's what. I was out of my mind, legitimately. I mean, you ever fuck so good you enter a different dimension?"
"Delia…" she sighed. "Every time Hayden and I have sex, that's how it is. And not to scare you even more, but it's better every time. You know why?"
"Are you gonna talk about the power of love? Because both Celine Deion and Huey Lewis already covered that."
She sighed. "Haha. Yes, bitchface, I am going to talk about the power of love, and you are going to damned well hear me the fuck out."
"I'm hanging up now," I said.
"I'll be on the first flight to Ketchikan and stalk your ass all the way to fucking Nome, If I have to. Don't test me. You know I will."
“Fuck, fine. Jesus. Pushy."
“Yes, I'm gonna be pushy because you're making a very serious mistake. You need to turn your ho-ass around and apologize to that man."
"Emerson, I am not apologizing."
"Yes, you are. You're going to get on your knees and apologize with your mouth."
"As opposed to apologizing with my elbows?"
"I meant blow him, dumb-dumb."
"I know what you meant."
"Then don't play stupid. You're already on thin ice with me with this whole 'running away from the best thing that's ever happened to you' business."
"On thin ice? What does that even mean? Am I four? What are you going to do, spank me?"
"I'll leave the spanking to Hunter Hawkins."
I whimpered. "God, I'd love to be spanked by him."
"I bet he'd oblige in a New York minute. You just have to go back."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because."
"What are you, four? Yes, you can."
"No, I can't."
"Why? Fuck me, woman. Why not?"
"BECAUSE I'M IN LOVE WITH HIM AND I'M FUCKING TERRIFIED!"
"Well now we're getting somewhere," Emerson said. "Finally the truth comes out."
"You're so smug with your 'oooh I’m so in love,'" I adopted an obnoxious, wheedling tone.
She snorted sarcastically. "Yeah, because letting myself fall in love with Hayden was so easy."
I groaned. "I'm not you. And it's not the falling in love I'm scared of. I already am. I couldn't have stopped it if I tried. It's what comes next that I'm scared of."
"What? Being deliriously happy with the man of your dreams?"
"Emerson, you're making light of this. I'm for real here, okay? I'm scared. I don't know what to do."
She sighed. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I'm not trying to shit on your fears. But…look, I was scared. You were there, you saw. But I jumped. I took the risk. And it worked out, didn't it?"
"Yeah, but…Hawk is different. He's not like other guys. He offered to take me to Paris for a date. Like…oh no big deal, let's just fly to fucking France for the afternoon."
"You can't fly to France from Alaska for the afternoon, babe. It's a thirteen-hour flight." She paused. "But let's put aside the minor issue of flight times and focus on the really important part: why are you not in Paris?"
I sighed. "Em, c'mon. Even if he actually was serious…why?"
"I haven't met the man, obviously, but I feel like maybe he's not the type to joke about trips to Paris," Emerson said. "And why? You're asking the wrong question. Why not?"
"I…" No rational reason came to mind. "I…"
"Exactly. Your honor, I’d like to enter this into evidence, proving that my best friend is, in fact, a bit of an idiot." She cleared her throat. "What are you going to do, Dee? Ignore the man? Pretend the last few weeks never happened? Go back to lame hookups with the same pool of liars, cheaters, losers, and assholes?"
"I don't know. I mean, no, that doesn't sound fun. I just…" I screamed again, just because. "I don't fucking know!"
"What are you afraid of? You still haven't clarified. What's the worst-case scenario?"
"I…" I fought back a fresh wave of tears. "I don't know."
"Dee," she scolded. "You absolutely do know, you're too chicken to admit it."
"Why are you being so mean? I thought you were on my side."
"I am, always. No matter what. But part of being on your side means calling your ass out when you’re being an idiot, and you're being an idiot. You're in love with him. You had truly intimate sex for the first time in your life, and I'd bet my left tit that he's in love with you back. Yet you’re alone on the side of the road in the middle of fucking nowhere because you're scared of being in love for reasons you've never adequately rationalized to me. And yet, you won't even admit why you’re scared—to yourself, much less me, let alone to him."
Irrational anger barreled through me and took over my brain and my mouth—I heard the words coming out and knew they were bullshit even as I said them, but I was powerless to stop them, just as I’d been powerless to stop myself from running away from Hunter.
"Oh, fuck off, Emerson. I'm not afraid. I just don't trust him. He lied about who he is. Our lives will never line up. I don't fit into his life and he doesn’t fit into mine. And the sex wasn't even that intimate. Hot, yes. Intimate, no."
Stunned silence greeted my lie-filled diatribe for a full thirty seconds.
"Wow," Emerson drawled. "You're really in denial, huh? All right. Well, babe, if you can’t handle the truth right now, then there’s nothing else I can say to you.” A pause. “Look, Dee. I love you. You know I love you. You know I’m on your side. I’ve said my piece, so you know how I feel, but I’ll reiterate it for you as clearly and concisely as I can. You are in love with Hunter Hawkins. You’re terrified of real, true vulnerability and intimacy for reasons clearly not even you understand. You’re running away from a relationship that seems to me to be the best thing that ever has and ever will happen to you. You’re letting fear and pride deprive you of a joy of such magnitude that you cannot comprehend it from where you are. My advice to you is to turn Eggplant the Dick Ranger around and lay all your cards on the table for Hunter and see what happens. Worst case scenario, he doesn’t return your feelings, and you’re heartbroken. And guess what? You’ll heal. You have a huge family that loves you and will have your back and support you through it if that were to happen—and to be clear, I absolutely do not believe that’s what would happen. Now, I have to go, babes. You’re your own woman, and you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do, and there’s nothing I or anyone else can say or do to change your mind. I know that. But to recap: you’re making a mistake if you let Hunter go. A big, huge, colossal, massive, idiotic mistake. I say that with every ounce of unconditional love I have for you, sister of mine. Okay, now for real, I gotta go. Practice starts soon, and I need to get dressed still."
"Get dressed?" I asked. "It's…" I checked the time. "Twelve-thirty."
"Let's just say it was a late start for Hayden and me."
"I don't need to know the details."
“We were fucking. It was magical. He's been doing this thing lately where he—"
"HANGING UP NOW," I shouted. "You're no help at all and I loathe you entirely."
"You're welcome. Go talk to Hunter-okay-bye." She hung up before I could, which annoyed me further.
I stared out the window at the brilliant Alaskan sun glittering off the Inside Passage and utterly failed at any sort of valuable introspection.
Instead, I fixated on what I damned well knew was the wrong thing: Sex. Particularly, how fucking good it had been with him. And let's be clear: under any other circumstances, that would have been laughably short intercourse. I don't like fucking for hours, just to make the point. Just like I'm not a size queen, I don't want or need a six-hour fuck-fest. Or, at least, not nonstop—that's too long by, ohhh, five hours and thirty minutes, at least. I'm all about quality over quantity in most things, and sex is no exception. But with Hawk just now, actual intercourse had lasted all of two minutes.
And it was goddamned spectacular.
Why, though? The extreme foreplay in the form of edging? Obviously, that played a part. A big one, I'd imagine.
Something Emerson said echoed in my brain: “You had truly intimate sex for the first time in your life."
Bitch. Fuck you for being right.
Sorry, Em, I don't mean it. I love you.
I know Emerson is right on every count. I just…I can't convince myself to turn around.
I can't even convince myself to dig deeply enough into my own psyche to understand why I'm reacting this way.
Bawk-bawk—I'm a chicken. So much for being a strong, independent woman.
I did turn my truck around—which, yes, Emerson and I have, on numerous occasions, lovingly referred to as Eggplant the Dick Ranger—but I didn't go to Hunter's house.
I went to work.
I acted totally fine.
Aaaand best actress in a drama goes to…
Delia Badd.
A day turned into two. And then three. And then a week. I continued to act totally fine; Emerson, when we talked, pointedly refused to bring up Hunter or the entire situation, which annoyed me to no end and also for which I was grateful.
We signed a contract with Hunter's corporation. The contract was delivered by courier. Who knew we even had couriers in Ketchikan? I refused to think about the fact that even seeing Hunter's scrawled signature left me hyperventilating so badly I had to leave the office and do some square breathing in the alley.
A week turned into two, and I was turning into a total bitch. I snapped at Zeke for no reason…twice. When Dane teasingly jumped-scared me—a game he and I have played our whole lives, mutually—I nearly took his head off with a haymaker and then verbally eviscerated him so loudly and viciously that Mom had to intervene like we were little kids again.
I couldn't masturbate.
I was losing my appetite.
Even a sparring session with Uncle Bax didn't touch my shitty attitude.
I spent the weeks following the signing of the contract training Zeke to take over for me as GM of the Kitty, which, thankfully, was work enough to almost occupy my stupid mind.
I thought about Hunter constantly.
I found myself watching the entrance, hoping to see him swagger in and act like nothing had happened. I checked my phone obsessively, even though I couldn't remember if I'd even given him my number…not that that would stop a billionaire. If he wanted to get a hold of me, he would.
Clearly, he did not.
I told him to go back to New York, and he listened.
Good for him. He dodged a bullet by not getting involved with me.
A month and a half after signing the contract, we received word via email from Hunter's secretary that it was time to start flipping the Anchorage location. We'd informed the staff of the plans so they'd have ample time to line up new employment—we gave them all a small bonus, as well.
So, the email came in. Twenty-four hours later, I was packed and in the copilot's seat of Uncle Brock's plane, on the way to Anchorage.
Dad and I had worked up a plan, did some designs and mockups for the cosmetic updates we had planned, and had a headhunter company line up interviews. I’d have to hit the ground running the second I landed because my to-do list was a mile long. Thank god for that—hopefully, I'd be too busy to miss Hunter, too busy to wonder if maybe Emerson had been right and I'd made the mistake of a lifetime letting Hunter get away.
"So…Rebecca." I smiled at the woman opposite me—black haired, blue eyed, a few years older than me, and absurdly hot. "Why Anchorage?"
She smiled back, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I needed a drastic change in my life, for a lot of personal reasons. I can't say Alaska was exactly on my radar, but I got an email from a recruiter, did a little research, and figured I'd give it a try."
"With your experience, you could work just about anywhere. We'll definitely keep you busy, but I can't say you'd make the money here that you would in a big city in the Lower Forty-Eight. So, I guess I need to push on your answer a little bit. Why us? Why Anchorage?"
She met my gaze for a while, considering her answer. "Before I answer that, can I ask you a question?"
I shrugged. "Sure."
"You seem awful young to be the general manager. I guess…I don't mean to be disrespectful, but…"
"What are my qualifications?"
She gave a wincing smile and a shrug. “Yeah, basically."
"Well, I suppose the simplest answer is nepotism. My father and uncles owned and operated the original location in Ketchikan before I was born and for my whole life, I grew up behind the bar with my dad. Some of my earliest memories are of being behind the bar with my dad, watching him work. As soon as I was tall enough, he'd let me wash the glasses and stuff. When I was little, he’d set up a pretend bar for me in our basement playroom, complete with empty liquor bottles that he'd fill with water so I could pretend to pour drinks. Fucked up, I guess, but I loved it. I've worked my way up to this, Rebecca. My first official job was washing dishes. I bussed. I waited tables. I worked the line. I've done it all. Does that help?"
She nodded. "Yes, it does." She stared into space for a moment, blinking thoughtfully. "The truth is, I picked Anchorage because it's just about as far away from my previous life as you can get while still being in the United States. I'm not in trouble with the law or anything, I just…I needed to get away—far, far away."
"I appreciate the honesty, Rebecca." I went over my notes of the preceding conversation with her, tapping my pen idly against the legal pad. “Well, I have a couple other interviews for the position, but I will tell you that you're the front-runner, so far. I'll make a decision within twenty-four hours, okay? You're in Anchorage for how long?"
"Till the weekend," she answered. "And, for what it's worth, if you do decide to hire me, I can start right away."
I smiled. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks."
The next interviewee for the assistant manager position was a young man named Ernie. Yes, really. He was a sweet kid—and when I say kid, I mean someone who felt younger than me, even though he was actually a year older—with decent relevant experience, including a two-year stint as an assistant manager of a coffee shop in Seattle. He answered all the questions well and asked insightful questions—all in all, he interviewed quite well.
Except for one minor thing…
He never took his eyes off my boobs. And, for the record, I was wearing a fitted Badd's Bar polo and one of my more supportive and compressive sports bras, so it's not like I was busting major side-boob out of a tank top or something. Nope. He was just laser-focused on my boobs. Eye contact was minimal, at best. I'm not sure if he was even aware he was doing it, honestly, but that's just not something I can deal with on a daily basis with a coworker. Customers are gonna ogle you; I’m used to that. I’ve worked with my fair share of men—not related to me men, I mean—so I’m used to the occasional stare from the cooks when I’m in the back of the house. I’ve got big boobs, and men, generally speaking, tend to turn into prehistoric lizards when boobs of any size are around, but more so when monsters like mine jiggle into their line of sight.
It's fine. I get it. I'm not threatened or pissed off by it—just be discreet, dude. Get a good look and move on.
Ernie? He missed the "and move on" part of the memo.
I sent him on his way with a vague "we'll be in touch" blow-off.
The last interviewee was a stern woman named Georgia, who wore her blonde-and-silver hair in a severe bun, had reading glasses perched on her head, and answered all my questions with an expression that suggested she'd eaten an entire lemon mere moments ago. She talked down to me, clearly regarding me as a mere child, as if I was wasting her time by playing interviewer when the adults were talking.
I wrapped up my questions and set my pen down. "So, Georgia, do you have any questions for me?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. When will your father or one of your uncles be here to conduct the follow-up interview? I'd like to arrange that as soon as possible."
Oof.
I sighed. "I think we're done here, Mrs. Miller. Thank you for your time. We'll be looking elsewhere. Enjoy your stay in Anchorage."
I stood up, collected my pad and pen, and turned away.
"Excuse me, child."
I ignored her.
"I said, excuse me , child."
I whirled on her, my nerves frayed from a full day of interviews on top of overseeing the reno, which was becoming more extensive than originally planned and was seriously stressing me out.
"And I said we're done here, Mrs. Miller." I settled my features into an icy mask, letting my pent-up ire bleed through my gaze. "I am not a child. I am the general manager of this establishment. My father will not be conducting any interviews, ever. And certainly not with you. Nor will any of my uncles, most of whom rarely even set foot in our bars except to have a drink with family once in a while. You are rude, disrespectful, ageist, and, honestly, just plain unpleasant. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to, so I bid you good day, madam."
I turned on my heel and stalked angrily to the office, seething. I shut the door behind me and tried to steady my breathing.
Which was when the hilarity hit. "I bid you good day, madam?" I repeated. "What the fuck was that? Am I an aristocrat in Victorian England? Jesus, I’m losing it."
When I was somewhat in control of my emotions once more—as much as I could be, lately—I left the office and went into the kitchen to assess the progress—we were opening the wall to create an open kitchen, which meant a total revamp of the kitchen. You see, Hunter's "people”—whatever that meant—had hired some company or other to conduct a survey of Anchorage residents, and the results had indicated that most wanted a more upscale, semi-casual dining experience rather than yet another sports bar. So we were pivoting—Badd’s Bar Anchorage would now be rebranded as a restaurant rather than a bar, which meant a bigger overhaul and renovation. It also meant my job was harder—I knew how to run a bar. But an "upscale dining experience?" The fuck was that? I had a lot to learn.
This was where Rebecca would come in: her experience was largely in restaurants, mostly nice sit-down, slower-paced places with heavy, three-page menus, cloth napkins, and expensive silverware.
I called her and offered her the job, starting tomorrow, with five percent above her asking salary. She'd technically be my assistant manager, but in reality, she would probably end up being more like a co-GM. Which was fine by me—I just wanted the place to succeed.
I lost myself in the work—choosing appliances, silverware, linens, laundry service, a food distributor, getting all the necessary certifications and licenses, and narrowing down the menu with my newly hired head chef Anton. Yes, we had a head chef because places like this had chefs, not just mere line cooks. I put him in charge of hiring his own BOH staff.
Anton was in his mid-thirties, with tanned olive skin, jet-black hair, and a thick European accent that I couldn’t place. His interview had been mostly him showing me the kinds of dishes he specialized in—classic Americana fare, but with a sophisticated European twist. Or so he said. It ended up being things like burgers with weird ingredients that somehow ended up being mind-blowingly delicious and lobster mac ’n cheese for the highbrow set. He’d put together a few dozen dishes, which were then tested by the same company that had done the survey; a poll was conducted, and favorites were selected. Once the kitchen was finished, we'd host tasting nights where the staff and a few locals would test and vote on the menu—subject to Anton's and my final approval.
It was all very hoity-toity, if you asked me, and not what I'd signed up for, but it was a challenge and a half, and it kept me working like a maniac twelve and sixteen hours a day. Which meant I had very little time to be a disaster about Hunter.
Who I may or may not have dreamed about six nights out of seven for the last…well, since the day I ran away from him. So…three months? Thereabouts. I've not been keeping track.
My heart hurts. I miss him. I miss talking to him. I miss our witty banter. I miss his arrogant smirk. I miss his genuine smile, which, while rare, was breathtaking when it appeared. I missed his green-flecked tan eyes.
I missed his body.
I missed kissing him.
I missed his cock.
I just…missed him.
I wasn't ready to admit to myself that I had, in fact, committed a grave error. But…I was close.
It wouldn't matter if I did admit it, though. I may have accidentally googled him again, and I may have accidentally seen a tabloid article with photos showing him all cozy at some Manhattan bar with a glamourous, skinny model-type with perfectly round silicone tits and a veneered smile and a blowout that probably cost more than I make in a week.
He'd moved on.
And that was fine.
Just fine.
I was fine.
Ever see that meme of Ross, crying, a hand to his throat, claiming he was fine?
Yeah.
I'm fine .