5. Chloe
Chapter 5
Chloe
W hen I exit the hotel and step into the frigid night air, I wrap my arms around myself in a lame attempt to try and keep warm. I ignore how luxurious the expensive, soft fabric of his shirt feels against my skin. Or how good it smells.
What a crazy night this turned out to be. For a moment, I even contemplated his offer of spending the night, but in the end, I held firm, which I’m proud of. I’m not one to overstay my welcome, and I don’t have the time or energy for a man in my life.
I also refused the lift he offered because I didn’t want him to know where I lived. Am I embarrassed by the dump I live in? Kind of, but it was more about cutting ties. That’s why I prefer anonymity.
Did I enjoy my time with him? Absolutely, but it was never going to be anything more than that. I got my orgasms; I’m not interested in anything else. That might sound cold, but sometimes it is okay to be selfish. He got just as much out of tonight as I did.
It will be a long, excruciating walk home since I have to empty my car and lug all its contents with me. I can’t risk it getting stolen because I don’t have the funds to buy the new cleaning equipment I’ll need for one of my other jobs.
Since I can’t afford to have the vehicle towed and don’t have the funds to fix it, I have no other option but to cut my losses. Maybe I could get a scrap metal place to come and collect it. I don’t know how that works, but I may be able to recoup some money. Anything is better than nothing.
In hindsight, though, it wouldn’t have killed me to accept money for the cab, but I don’t bode well with handouts. Never have. I’ve had to rely on myself for so long now that I’m stubborn when it comes to seeking help from others.
Strength comes when you learn to fight alone, and you never have to fear what will become of you if you don’t have to depend on others.
When I return to the car, I’m relieved to find it’s still where I left it. I don’t like my chances, but the first thing I do is slide behind the wheel and try to turn over the engine, hoping it might start.
Stranger things have happened.
Like walking into a swanky bar down on your luck, only to leave a few hours later completely satisfied after a chiselled Italian god fucked me within an inch of my life and gave me multiple orgasms—the most intense I’ve ever had. I never anticipated my night ending that way, but I’m not complaining.
“Please, please, please,” I pray as I turn the key. I exhale a frustrated breath when nothing happens. “Damn you,” I mumble.
I briefly remain inside the car, resting back in the seat and reflecting on the last few hours of my night. I’m not one to dwell on the what-ifs, but I give myself a moment to do just that. I’d be all over that man like a rash if my life were different.
I’ve been with incredibly good-looking guys before, but none of them come close to being in the same league as the man I was just with. Even if you take the money out of the equation … there was something very appealing about him.
He was the complete package. That bad-boy persona that women seem to gravitate towards, with the looks and body to match—he had abs for days—but it was his dominance in the bedroom that I found the most alluring. That knowledge was surprising. It’s not a trait I ever thought I’d enjoy, but I loved how he owned my body and me.
His confidence, masculine charm, and charisma left me weak at the knees. Of course, I did my best to shield that information from him. There was no point feeding his ego further, and I also didn’t want him to think I was after more, because I wasn’t.
His only flaw—aside from ripping my blouse, which I wouldn’t have minded if I could’ve afforded to replace it—was the rosary bead tattoo that curled around his neck, spread across his chest, and trailed down the sculpted length of his torso. It was so exquisitely detailed that it almost looked real, like I could reach out and pluck the beads right off his skin.
The tattoo itself was undeniably sexy, and I caught myself staring at it more times than I care to admit. But every glance tugged at something deeper, something I didn’t want to face. It reminded me of my mother. I hated that. I don’t like thinking about her anymore. It still stings knowing you’re not as important to someone as you once thought.
When I was a girl, we went to church every Sunday. I used to look forward to it—everything about it felt special. My mother always made it an event, and I adored getting dressed up in my Sunday best. Afterwards, we’d head to a nice restaurant where I was the centre of my parent’s attention. I felt loved, cherished, and truly seen. I miss those days. Life was so much simpler back then.
My faith used to mean everything to me, but that changed when my mother left. My dad was no longer the man he once was. He became a shadow of himself after she walked away, and I wasn’t about to do anything that reminded me of her. She turned out to be a hypocrite, preaching values she no longer lived by.
As my eyes grow heavy and I stifle a yawn, my hand reaches for the door handle. It’s time to pack up my things and move on.
By the time I get home, I’m running on empty. I tiptoe onto the front porch, wincing as the old floorboards creak under my weight, and set down the bucket I’ve crammed all my cleaning supplies into as carefully as possible. My dad’s room is at the front of the house, and I don’t want to wake him.
I prop up the mop and broom against the weatherboard siding. As I straighten, I arch my back slightly, trying to ease the tension in my weary muscles. Before I can function again, I need a hot shower and a few hours of sleep.
As I round the side of the house, I open and close my hands a few times, trying to regain feeling in my fingers. That bucket was so heavy that I even contemplated ditching it multiple times on my long walk home, but replacing it all by Monday morning wasn’t an option, so I persevered.
When I reach my bedroom window, I wiggle my fingers under the small gap and use both hands to slide it up, then hoist myself inside.
This is how I usually enter the house—not conventional, I know, but a couple of guys kicked the front door in late last year. They were chasing up my father’s gambling debt.
I’ve come to call that moment his rock bottom, but the truth is my father has hit that point countless times since my mother left. Whenever I think he can’t sink any lower, he somehow finds a way to fall even further into that dark hole that has become our reality.
He was beaten within an inch of his life that night, and they threatened to return the following day to finish off the job if he didn’t produce the money he owed them.
Over the years, I had managed to put a small amount of money away each week. It wasn’t a lot, but it added up over time. It was a safety net, but I used it to get my father out of his bind. It didn’t cover the entire debt, but I begged and pleaded with the thugs, and they agreed to let me pay the rest off. That’s when I took on job number three … the one I no longer have.
As if things weren’t already hard enough. I feel like I’ve been chasing my tail ever since. The silver lining to all that was my father finally agreeing to stop gambling, and to this day, he has kept his word.
As for our broken front door, the landlord is an arsehole and thinks I should be grateful for him letting us live in the squaller we now call home. There was no way he would fix it—getting him to repair anything is the equivalent of pulling teeth without a local anaesthetic—and I couldn’t afford to pay for it, so the door has been permanently nailed closed ever since.
We have a back entrance, but the door often jams. The minor flooding we get in the backyard every time it rains has caused movement in the house over the years, so the only way to open that door is with a wing, a prayer, and a hefty shoulder barge. Hence why the window is the easier option.
Once inside, I test the light switch and silently thank the electricity gods when I see we still have power. Even though it wouldn’t be the first time it’s been cut off, it would pose countless other problems, like no hot showers, means for cooking, or a way to keep food cold.
My life is a never-ending cycle of disappointment, a roller coaster I desperately hope to escape one day.
I move to my dresser and grab some clean underwear, a singlet, and a pair of sleep shorts from the drawer. I’m in desperate need of a shower.
On the way to the bathroom, I stop at my father’s bedroom door and place my ear against the wood. A slight grin tugs at my lips when I hear him snoring on the other side.
Although he’s been on his best behaviour lately, I can’t shake the fear that he’ll slip up again. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s given in to his inner demons and let me down.
I love my dad. I do. I can’t imagine where I’d be if he’d abandoned me the way my mother did, but I miss the father he used to be. Somewhere along the way, the roles shifted, and I became the carer … the parent. I try not to dwell on it—every moment spent looking back only keeps us from moving forward. There are better things for us on the horizon … I have to believe that.
Half an hour later, despite being dead tired and burdened down by the clusterfuck I’ll have to deal with in the morning, the only thing on my mind when I climb into bed is a pair of dark-brown, piercing eyes.