Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
Lane
Kam leans forward, eyes wide. “You’ve been on how many dates and you still haven’t seen his dick?” she blurts, loudly, her hand coming up to rest on her chest, her bracelets clanking with the movement. Her expression is pure, unfiltered shock.
We’re sitting at a booth smack dab in the center of Brewed. The sharp scent of roasted beans hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the buttery croissant sitting in front of me.
I glance around nervously, the clink of mugs and hiss of the espresso machine suddenly too loud. Heat spikes up my neck, settling hot in my cheeks when a few people glance our way before quickly going back to their coffee.
I lean forward, my eyes narrowed. “Can we not announce my sex life to the whole town?”
“Sorry,” she whispers, ducking her head and looking at least a little ashamed of herself. “Seriously, what’s going on? I’ve never met a guy who says no after six dates.”
I groan, slumping back, the cracked vinyl creaking under me. “I don’t know.” My finger traces the condensation running down my cup. “I shouldn’t be complaining. He’s incredible.”
“But…” she asks, because of course she knows there is a but.
“Who the hell is that perfect? It’s been over a month, and I haven’t found a single flaw. Everyone has flaws.”
I twirl the straw nervously, watching the ice clinking together like wind chimes. Everything I said is true. Jameson is perfect, and nobody is that perfect. No man goes on six dates with a woman and refuses her every time she asks to touch him. And I’ve asked. Fuck, I’ve even begged.
He says he wants to take it slow. That if I touch him, there’s no way he’ll be able to stop himself from fucking me. And then there’s the dirty talk. God, his voice in my ear, the low rasp of it. Promises of just how good it’ll be. I’m addicted.
Kam leans forward, mercifully lowering her voice. “You think it’s a fetish? Like, that’s what he gets off on? Just watching women get off?”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I think you read too many smutty books.”
She crosses her arms, nails painted a glossy purple that glint under the overhead lights. “We both know there’s no such thing as too many when it comes to smutty books.”
I sigh, the sound lost under the grind of coffee beans. “No, I don’t think he has some secret kink.”
At least I hope not. I’ve never come so often or so hard in my life. But I would actually like to have sex at some point.
Kam sits back, crossing one leg over the other, her perfume, vanilla and something floral, catching the air as she moves. She sips her drink, eyes pinned to me, silently willing me to spill.
“He won’t have sex with me until I tell him I’m all in,” I admit finally, the words tasting like a confession.
I haven’t been able to say the words. They get stuck in my throat every time, the fear of the unknown creeping under my skin, mixing with guilt that sits heavy in my chest.
How can I commit to him when I’m lying about who I really am?
Her voice softens. “I get that you are scared, but do you think maybe you are looking a little too hard for those flaws? I’m not saying he doesn’t have any, because lord knows all men do.
With the exception of men written by women, of course,” she corrects.
“But maybe it’s something simple like he leaves the toilet seat up or only likes action movies.
Not every man is going to hurt you like your ex did. Not every man is a piece of shit.”
She’s right. He’s damn near perfect. Maybe I can learn to live with the lie, like I have with her.
Guilt, hot and heavy curls in my stomach. How would I feel if the scenario were reversed? If he was lying to me about something of this magnitude? I don’t think I’d be able to forgive him.
The smell of lemon cleaner mixed with cigarettes and beer, assaults my nose when I walk into The Broken Bottle after my coffee date with Kam. It’s the kind of smell that seeps into the wood, no matter how many times I’ve scrubbed the walls, mopped the floors, and steamed the carpet.
My shoes give a pull against the floor with each step as I round the bar. “How was it today?” I ask Maddison, my other coworker.
She glances over her shoulder from the register.
“Thank God it’s 6 o'clock,” she groans, counting out her tip money.
“I’ve had seven customers all day. And One Dollar Rick was in here for FIVE hours.
That’s over half of my shift.” She levels me with a look, one of pure disbelief.
“He played Friends in Low Places seven times. Who listens to a song seven times? IN. A. ROW.”
One Dollar Rick got his nickname because he tips a single dollar no matter how long he squats at the bar. Cheap bastard.
I wince. “Please tell me you are exaggerating.”
She just stares.
“Damn,” I mutter, laughing as I lean against the bar. “Okay, yeah. I don’t envy you.”
“I wouldn’t envy me either,” she says, grabbing her purse. “I hope your shift is better than mine.”
“Me too,” I chuckle as she slips out the door.
I grab a few cases of beer from the back, taking advantage of the quiet to restock.
It won’t stay this way long. Weeknights may start off slow but by nine every seat at the bar will be full.
The cold air rushing out each time I swing the glass door open, carrying the faint bite of hops and condensation.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, the corners of my lips tugging up when I read the message.
Jameson
How’s work going?
He asks every shift, without fail. Same with the good morning text I wake up to.
Lane
Boring. I haven’t had a customer yet.
Jameson
Want me to come keep you company?
Guilt bites at me. I should put some distance between us until I figure my shit out.
Lane
No, that’s okay. I have my book with me.
Jameson
What’s your book about?
My guilt becomes heavier, threading through my ribs. Of course he would ask. Most guys don’t give a shit. The lucky ones brag about it online. Little social media clips of boyfriends who actually ask about their girlfriend’s books.
Lane
You really want to know what my book is about?
Jameson
Of course I do. I want to know everything that interests you, Wildflower.
My heart flutters. Actually flutters.
Lane
It’s a Cowboy Romance
Jameson
Is it spicy?
Lane
What do you know about spicy books?
Jameson
I visited Kam’s bookstore. She gave me a couple of recommendations.
There’s no way he actually read them.
Jameson
Yes, Wildflower, I’ve been reading them. Touch her and die is my favorite.
I stand frozen, staring at the screen. He actually read them. And he has a favorite trope.
Jameson
Don’t believe me, baby? Maybe once you finally tell me you are all mine, we can act out one of your favorite scenes.
Heat blooms across my chest. Not only does he look like he stepped out of a dark mafia romance, he reads them, and wants to act out my favorite scenes.
Did it just get really hot in here?
Before I can answer, the front door creaks open. The scent of stale liquor and sweat hitting me before I look up. I lift my head, meeting Luke’s bloodshot eyes.
Fucking hell. I do not want to deal with his particular brand of shit tonight.
He knows he’s banned. He’s called me every name in the book over it, ranting to anyone who listens.
I set my phone on the bar in front of me and cross my arms, standing my ground. “What are you doing here, Luke? You know you got banned.”
He stumbles, boots getting caught on the rug and bumps into a barstool to his right. Jesus, how drunk is he?
After another stumble and some swaying, he slides onto a barstool in front of me, beer and sweat rolling off him in rancid waves. “Laney, Laney, Laney,” he chants the nickname I hate.
Ugh. I think I would take One Dollar Rick playing Friends in Low Places on repeat for an entire shift, over dealing with Luke.
“You know you’re not allowed in here, Luke,” I state flatly.
“This is the only bar in town, Laney,” he slurs, his lips tilting up in what I’m sure he believes is a charming smile. “You have to tell Chip it was all a misunderstanding.”
Seriously, he’s begging to be let back into a bar.
A bar.
Yep, he was definitely an all-time low for me.
My eyes narrow, anger rising from deep in my chest. “You sliced my tires and verbally assaulted me at the fair, Luke. You know Chip doesn’t give second chances. And neither do I.”
He sits back, the stool creaking under his weight. “I’m sorry about that, Laney, but you embarrassed me in front of my friend. But I’m willing to forgive you.”
Is he fucking for real right now? He’s willing to forgive me?
I bite back my anger. “Luke, if Chip sees you on the cameras, he’s going to lose his mind. You know what happened last time someone came after being banned,” I warn, looking directly at the camera above his head, hoping the threat is enough to get him to leave.
He glances at the camera over his shoulder, then back to me, his lips curling into a smug smile. “You and I both know he never watches them. Just give me a beer, Lane. Chip never has to know.”
I stalk to the cooler, yanking the door open harder than necessary, the cold air hitting me in the face. “One beer, Luke, and then you leave, got it?” I call over my shoulder, grabbing a bottle of Coors Light.
“Is he why you want me to leave?” Luke demands, when I set the bottle in front of him.
It takes me a second to catch on. Then I see it, my phone, screen lit with a text from Jameson.
Jameson
I’m coming to the bar. I have a surprise for you.
Lukes’s face twists into something ugly. “Is he the reason why you don’t go out with me again?”
My heart beats against my ribs, sharp and uneven.
I take a steadying breath. I need to stay calm. Jameson is on his way.
I fight the urge to glance at the door. “No, Luke. It isn’t because of him or anyone else. I just don’t do relationships,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“Bullshit!” He shoots up, knocking the stool over with a crash that echoes off the walls.
I jump back, breath catching. My mind flashes back to Byron falling to the ground, his light blue button up quickly becoming red.
Another crash. I’m jerked back to the present, swapping one monster for another.
Luke’s bloodshot eyes locked on me, his hands gripping the back of a stool so hard his fingers are turning white. “You want me to leave so he can come over and fuck you? Is that all you’re ever going to be, Lane? A slut?” He pushes the stool over, punctuating his words.
I flinch, the words hitting like a slap. Luke is drunk and angry, not a great combination.
He slowly stalks toward me, shoving stools aside, each one landing with a loud thud against the floor until he’s blocking my exit.
His jaw tightens, his eyes holding an anger I’ve only ever seen in my old life. “You think I haven’t heard about all the dates you two have been on? It’s all anyone can talk about,” he spits in disgust.
Fear creeps up my body, lodging in my throat. Luke’s face morphs into Byron’s. Panic threatens to take over but I push it down.
Luke isn’t Byron, and this isn’t a nightmare.
He takes a menacing step forward, his boots echoing across the floor. “You don’t get to decide that we are done.”
My pulse beats loudly in my ears. I don’t move, my mind racing through ways to escape.
He closes the distance, stopping a foot away. Close enough that his rancid breath wafts across my face, causing bile to rise in my throat. “I say when we’re done.” His hand snaps out, gripping my chin, fingers digging in. “After I’m finished with you, you can go back to being a whore.”
He crashes his lips to mine.
I jerk back, ripping my mouth from his, and slap him as hard as I can across the face, the sting radiating up my arm.
He stumbles back, hand flying to his redding cheek. “You want to play rough, Lane?”
His hand shoots out, grabbing me by the throat. “Let’s play rough.” He walks me back until my back slams against the wall. I fight back a groan against the pain radiating down my spine.
“I decide when we are finished,” he seethes.
Before I can react his mouth is on mine again, his tongue pushing against the seam of my mouth. I keep my mouth shut tight, my lips firmly trapped between my teeth and push at his chest with all my strength, but he isn’t budging.
The front door crashes open, slamming against the wall loudly. Luke rips his mouth from mine, whipping his head toward the noise.
It’s all the distraction I need. My knee comes up, hitting him directly between the legs. He doubles over, gasping. I bring my knee up again, this time connecting with his nose. He crumples to the ground, hands coming up to cup his face.
He groans, curled up in the fetal position, blood already slick on his fingers. “You broke my nose, bitch,” he grunts, the words muffled.
I draw my leg back, ready to kick him again, when I hear my name. His name for me.
“Wildflower.”
Jameson.
A strangled cry rips from my throat as I run into his outstretched arms.