Levi
Twenty-Eight
Iwake with a start from where I fell asleep on the couch, blinking my eyes rapidly to clear the sleep from them and trying to figure out what time it is.
How long had I been asleep? I’ve been running myself ragged these past few weeks between work and keeping an eye on Oakley.
I must have needed the sleep, my body deciding for me that it’s had enough before effectively shutting me down for some much-needed shut-eye.
I grab my phone off the coffee table and check the time. Ten-thirty.
“Shit,” I curse and fling my legs over the edge of the couch, practically running to the stairs and taking them two at a time. When I reach my room, I go into the bathroom and start the shower, peeling off my clothes until I’m standing naked in front of the large mirror.
I take another quick glance at my phone, noticing several missed calls and messages from the guys asking where the hell I am. Irritation floods me as I step under the spray of water and hastily scrub shampoo into my scalp.
I told her I would be there tonight, but I never expected to be so late.
How is she supposed to count on me when I can’t even show up when I say I’m going to?
I know she says she’s fine, and she is, but I can’t help the fear that overwhelms me at the thought that he might be waiting for an opportunity like this.
I’ve done some digging in the past few weeks, calling in a favor with an old buddy of mine who has since moved away from town and now works for a prominent tech company in the city.
With his help, we were able to track down one Travis Cameran, thirty-four-year-old habitual drunk and drug addict with a rap sheet longer than the Bible.
Multiple DUIs resulting in the eventual loss of his license, along with various citations and tickets for driving without a license, possession, and possession with intent to distribute.
Convictions dating back years, detailing multiple reports of domestic and sexual abuse, and a litany of orders of protection on behalf of his victims. It’s a wonder the man is still out and walking the streets, a fact that is a testament to how fucked our justice system is.
All of this I’m sure Oakley has no idea about, and I have every intention of keeping her in the dark about it for as long as I can.
She’s just starting to get her spark back after the motel incident, and I can’t bring myself to dull that by weighing her down with information that would only serve to hinder her progress.
At least not while I’m looking out for her.
Climbing out of the shower, I dry off and quickly dress in clean clothes, running my fingers through my hair until I get the tousled look I know she likes.
She hasn’t said as much, but I see the way her eyes linger on my wet locks when I’m fresh out of the shower and standing in the kitchen brewing a cup of coffee.
That’s alright. I don’t need her to say it out loud. She’ll admit it to herself eventually.
I see the way she looks at me, the way she appreciates my body while I’m outside doing yard work, her face that of a deer caught in the headlights, like she’s in wonder of me. I have to admit, it feels good to have her admire me.
What doesn’t feel good is the fact that I have to continuously hold myself back from touching her, from lifting that plump little ass onto the kitchen counter while I kiss and lick my way down her neck.
I long to whisper all the filthy things I plan on doing to her in her ear, just to hear her whimper of need in answer.
But I don’t do any of that, no matter how badly I might want to. I’m giving her space, trying to allow her the time to settle in and decide for herself what she wants, all while being the perfect gentleman, when in reality, I’m aching to touch her.
Fuck, the way I want to devour her is anything but respectful, but the difference between myself and a piece of shit like Travis Cameran is the ability to deny myself for her sake.
When I touch her, it’ll be because she’s finally had enough of waiting and begs me to. Then, and only then, will I allow myself to show her exactly how it feels to be worshiped and fucked by a real man, not the sorry excuse of a man like Travis.
I shoot her a quick text to let her know I’m on my way before I peel out of the drive and down the road.
She likely won’t see it, with how busy the bar is on Saturday nights, but it selfishly brings me a little comfort.
I don’t bother sending the same message to the guys.
They’re not nearly as important as she is, and they’ll see me when I get there.
I’m pulling into Joe’s twenty minutes later, and a jittery energy at the thought of seeing her fills me as I push through the doors and into the dimly lit bar.
A lively atmosphere greets me, the smell of spilled beer and cigarette smoke bringing me the odd sort of comfort that only comes with being around a place like this all your life.
Patrons, both old and young, fill the space, the latter taking up room on the dance floor, laughing boisterously with each other through heavy-lidded eyes that suggest they’ve been here long enough to be on the bad side of buzzed by now.
My eyes scan the crowd, impatience and concern flowing freely through my veins when I don’t immediately spot her.
A hand claps me on the shoulder before Justin lands a wet kiss against my cheek. “Mwah!” he exclaims loudly, and the stench of beer on his breath, along with whatever the fuck that was, has me pushing him back a step with a glare.
“What the fuck, man?” I grumble, wiping a hand down my cheek in disgust.
Justin guffaws, throwing his head back like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. “I’ve missed you! I thought you stood me up.”
We make our way to our back-corner booth, where Isaac and Brandon are already seated, both of them nursing what I’m sure are not their first beers.
My eyes continue to scan the crowd, looking for a glimpse of that golden hair.
Eventually, I spot her behind the bar, chatting with one of the regulars as she mixes a Jack and Coke, and I let out a sigh of relief at the sight of her.
Fuck, she looks good in those painted-on blue jeans, and that little ribbed tank top has my knees buckling every time I see it on her.
“Fell asleep for a little longer than I planned to after work today.” I tear my gaze from Oakley and turn my attention to the group of men sitting around the table.
They nod their understanding. They’re probably as tired as I am with all the overtime. Still though, the extra money is good, and I’m not going to be one to complain about it.
Isaac shoves a beer in my direction, and I take it eagerly, slurping down the cool liquid and holding in my grimace. I hate beer, but it’s better than nothing until I can get up and grab a real drink from the bar.
I turn my attention back to Oakley as the guys continue their conversation.
Cliff isn’t working tonight like he usually does, and I know how much of a pain in the ass Layla can be.
If the way she shoves past Oakley without so much as a look over her shoulder is any indication, I’m willing to bet that tonight has been shit for her.
It’s not Oakley’s fault, though. Unfortunately, the blatant hostility from Layla has everything to do with me.
After seeing how she treats Oakley, I’m disgusted that I ever touched her, let alone dated her.
Word gets around quickly in a town this size, and shortly after I moved Oakley into my place, the gossip mill started up.
By the end of that first weekend, it seemed that everyone knew about my new roommate, and trust me, some of them were not shy about sharing their opinions, whether I wanted to hear them or not.
Some of the more traditionally-minded people had no problem talking about how we were “living in sin.”
I even heard that Pastor Daniels preached a sermon on the topic of sexual relations out of wedlock the following Sunday, something that only served to spread the news further, and kept the old church wives flapping their gums.
Trust me, I wish there was merit to his sermon, that the topic of discussion that morning was actually happening.
I blocked it out, not giving a shit whether or not people approve of our living situation, but I worried about the effect it might have on Oakley.
I have to admit: she took it well and seemed to brush it off.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when a certain blonde walks over, a limp rag hanging out of her back pocket and her hair pulled back from her face, held back by one of those big claw clips.
There’s a light sheen of sweat on her forehead that only makes her glow more radiantly than she did when she left the house.
Her bright smile has me cracking one of my own.
I allow my eyes to roam the length of her body, not bothering to hide my hungry perusal.
My smile widens when I find nothing out of place, nothing to indicate that he had been here.
“I see you finally made it,” she says to me in that light teasing tone I’ve grown so attached to.
“Sorry I’m late, darlin’.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. You needed the rest. You want your usual?”
I give an appreciative nod. “Please.”
She grabs several of the empties from the table, tucking them under her arm before heading to the bar with a, “Be right back,” thrown over her shoulder.
“Soooo,” Justin starts, and I can already hear the slur in his voice now that we’re in a quieter section of the bar. “You tap that yet?”
I smack his arm. Hard. “Watch your fucking mouth,” I snap.
“Come on, man,” Brandon pleads with an apology in his expression. “We’re all wonderin’ it.”
I pick at the label on the empty bottle in front of me, mulling over the response I want to give versus the response I should give.
I want to lash out at them, grab them by their collars and demand they apologize to not only me, but to Oakley as well, but at the end of it all, I know they’re just curious.
And maybe a little concerned for me. It’s been years since I’ve been with a woman.
It’s not like I haven’t had the opportunity.
I’ve been holding out for something better.
I’m no saint, and my self-induced abstinence has nothing to do with thinking I shouldn’t, or not enjoying the act itself.
It has more to do with making sure I can see a potential future with the next woman I’m with.
Today’s society is ridiculous in the expectation that men should be able and willing to get down to it with anyone that looks their way.
What ever happened to standards? I sigh.
“No, I hav— We haven’t. Not that it’s any of your concern.” I give them each a pointed look, but it’s half-hearted in nature, and they seem to relax a little.
“We just want what’s best for you. And I don’t know, man. She seems like she’s done some good,” Isaac says.
“She has, I just—” I let out a sharp exhale. “I’m giving her time. I think she knows how I feel, and sometimes I can see that reciprocated, but I don’t want to push her. I want her to come to me. Is that stupid?”
“No, it’s not. It’s called respect,” Justin replies, and both Brandon and Isaac nod their heads in agreement.
“But when you do finally get down and dirty, I’m gonna need a play-by-play because that ass is unreal, and I gotta know if it’s as good as it looks from here,” Brandon says, and I raise my hand to smack the grin off his face when Isaac jumps in, catching my hand.
“He’s joking!” Isaac shouts, and I shoot him a disbelieving look. “Okay, he’s not joking. But he is drunk. He’s not gonna remember any of this tomorrow, don’t worry.”
“Then he won’t remember if I give him another smack for good measure,” I answer, but instead of doing just that, I lower my hand as Oakley returns with our drinks.
She passes the beers to the guys, looking hesitantly at Justin, who grins up at her with what I can only describe as puppy dog eyes, before she rolls her eyes and sets the beer down in front of him.
She hands me my drink last, the amber liquid in the glass sloshing a little as I take it from her.
“Bourbon, neat.”
Somehow I’m able to hear her low whisper despite the noise of the revelry taking place around us.
I’m automatically in tune with her now, seeking her out in every room, listening for her voice, and her voice alone.
She’s smiling down at me, but over her shoulder I catch a glimpse of Layla at a nearby table, shooting daggers at us.
Not wanting to cause any trouble for Oakley, I return my attention to guys, who are all staring at us with rapt attention like they’re watching a sitcom. When they catch my gaze, they all immediately drop their own, chattering over each other in an attempt to hide that they were watching.
The absence of her presence leaves me with the faint aroma of lavender, and I glance over my shoulder to see her weaving her way through the crowd, back to the bar.
I slouch in my seat a little, getting comfortable, settling in for another few hours of watching her until it’s time to go home and crawl into bed again.