Chapter Five
Trading Up
Lottie
Things did not go well after Mo was a supreme
asshole.
If I wanted to look on the Brightside (which I did not),
him making it plain how fuckable he thought I was, was not a bad thing.
Him completely missing the pass I was throwing at
him was.
I mean, did he honestly think I was wearing my
nightie making breakfast with a man I hadn’t slept with just so I could be a
huge-ass tease?
No!
I wanted the big lug to ask me out.
Jerk.
Asshole.
Fuckface.
Obviously, considering I was an adult, I realized a route to
rectifying this situation was to explain where I was at, and considering he
thought I was fuckable, he’d probably get with the program.
Fat chance of that.
I couldn’t be an adult at the best of times, even actually being
an adult.
Sure. I got to work on time.
I paid my bills.
I kept my house.
I got oil changes when I was supposed to (though I thought
that was a huge scam, every three months? come on).
What I did not do, for three days, was talk to Mo.
Yeah.
Not very adult.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly true.
We talked because I was my mother’s daughter. I couldn’t
start my day with someone in my house silently trailing me and not offer him
coffee.
So I’d said, “Coffee?” to him the next two mornings after
he’d been a consummate jackass.
Other than that…
No.
Why?
Two reasons.
One, I was the kind of woman who held a grudge. I just did.
I knew that wasn’t right. It had cost me friendships and boyfriends and maybe I
should work on that.
But not with Mo.
Oh no.
Not with Mo.
Two, because he didn’t like strippers.
That was clear.
He might have been diplomatic during our first talk, though
he had indicated he had a problem with it.
And he was not mean to the girls at Smithie’s.
He was also not friendly.
Then of course there was that part of his outburst, the part
I liked the best (not), where he’d said, Every night, you dance,
and you got a huge room full of men gagging for it.
He thought I got off on it.
And okay, if I took a second to calm down and reflect (which
I did not), there might be something about that.
It still wasn’t cool he threw it in my face and the way he
did.
But I knew that about myself.
I liked attention.
When I was younger, I went to LA to become an actress.
I ended up Queen of the Corvette Calendar because, first,
how kickass was that? And second, I sucked at acting. And last, there was an
operative word in that title.
Queen.
My sister was quiet and sweet and responsible and
hardworking, and everyone adored her.
But I was not any of that. Not even close.
This wasn’t sibling rivalry.
At least (if I was honest), not anymore.
And Jet didn’t get all the attention, but everyone
around us made sure she (and thus I) knew how awesome she was for being sweet
and responsible and hardworking.
“Oh, what a good girl she is, looking after that wild sister
of hers while Nancy’s at work,” and, “Oh, it just breaks my heart Jet had to
get a job so she could help her momma out with the bills.”
That said, years ago (around about the time we were in a
room when bullets were flying), I’d grown up enough to see that my sister
didn’t have it all that great, what with our not-so-stellar life with a
deadbeat dad who kept us all on a string with fancy plans and big promises.
I also saw how responsible and hardworking she’d had to be
and that she’d sacrificed a lot for me.
I appreciated it.
And I loved her for it.
I also moved on.
From that.
Not so much the fact our dad was a loser.
And I was honest enough with myself I knew that I was that
girl who needed to be daddy’s little girl. Daddy’s princess. His sun and moon
and stars. The girl he threatened all her boyfriends
so they wouldn’t hurt her, but mostly he was working out his issues because he
didn’t want to let her go. The girl he choked up about when he gave her away at
her wedding.
Our dad had gotten his shit together.
But I would never fully trust it, and that was part of my
plight, and his punishment.
Because all of what I’d needed when I was a little girl and
growing up was lost to me.
I could never again be five and walking through the fair
with my hand in my father’s and have him cry, “Gotta get some cotton candy for
my best girl!” making me feel loved, treasured, safe, protected…
Special.
Okay, he’d done that when I was five.
And when he’d stopped because the poker table was more
important than his wife and daughters, that was when I’d learned what missing
something felt like.
And how that missing it could turn to needing it.
And how that need became seeking attention.
Not to mention how to hold a grudge.
So on Day Three with The Supreme Asshole of All Time (Mo),
Sunday, one of my two days off (I had Sundays and Mondays off), Mo was still
sleeping on my couch in my room. He was also still standing backstage when I
danced (except the second dance, that was when he handed off to one of
Smithie’s guys and took a shower and changed).
And I had absolutely no idea what was going on with the
crackpot who wanted to “cleanse” me because I couldn’t ask Smithie considering
he probably thought I was getting briefs from Mo and I didn’t want to tell him
Mo was the Supreme Asshole of All Time.
This was due to my desire for Mo not to get fired (or
reprimanded or something) after I explained why we weren’t talking, which would
make Smithie do something rash, like attempt to Tase him then kick him in the
balls while he was down.
Or demand Hawk fire him.
Mo was an asshole, but he was vigilant, I was still alive
and safe (ish). Not trapped in a well only to be
drugged and dragged up and “cleansed” repeatedly (though, according to that
letter, a “cleansing” sounded a lot like rape and torture, and I wasn’t real
sure how that would make a girl clean, then again, I wasn’t a crackpot).
So I decided not to rock the boat.
Mo wasn’t the only person I’d run into who had a problem
with strippers.
I was used to it.
It hurt (coming from Mo).
It sucked (coming from Mo).
He was still hot as hell and I really wanted to pounce on
him.
And occasionally (all right, frequently), I remembered him
telling me I didn’t need the strips or the face mousse or the implants,
remembering this while also remembering how nice that felt.
But…whatever.
I’d been wrong about him.
He was one of those guys.
And one day he’d be gone.
Of course, this was what I told myself.
But at night, while trying to put my body to sleep bit by
bit, knowing he was right there in the room with me, and remembering how sweet
it was when Mo had helped me do that, my mind often wandered. When it did, I’d
end up feeling my throat close, my nose sting, and my eyes feel hot wishing I
hadn’t been wrong about him.
(Another reason for the grudge.)
Now we were in his truck, Mo driving, because I’d deviated
from my one-word-a-day plan and told him I had to go to the grocery store.
Therefore, we were heading to King Soopers.
He had a badass truck. Black on black Ram that had all the
bells and whistles (even illuminated door sills that said Ram).
Normally I wouldn’t hesitate to wax poetic about illuminated
door sills.
I was pretty sure Mo could live without knowing I dug his
sills.
Silently he drove and silently I rode.
Silently he parked and silently I sat next to him while he
did.
Silently we got out and silently we walked to the store
while I dug out the list from my purse.
Silently I grabbed a cart and silently he followed me as we
wandered through the store.
I was silently perusing the selection of Asian noodles when
I heard, “Mo?”
It was hearing a woman calling his name that caught my
attention.
It was feeling the wall of…something coming from Mo
that made me tense.
I looked up at him to see his jaw so set, I figured if I
watched long enough, a crack would form under the pressure.
I then looked to where his eyes were aimed.
A very beautiful brunette was walking our way, pushing a
cart, trailed by a tall, built (but nowhere near as built as Mo), very
good-looking guy.
I assessed the guy and his expensive clothes that he wore
even when going to King Soopers on a Sunday.
Peacock.
Possibly small dick.
Definitely sports car.
Or at the very least a high-performance vehicle (probably
BMW).
Totally up his own ass.
I then assessed the woman.
I should have done her first.
She was staring at Mo like she didn’t care sex in public was
very illegal because if he gave her a nod, she’d tear her off clothes and ride
him against the Asian food shelves.
My back shot straight.
Her gaze cut to me.
Her back shot straight.
Without a thought about what I was doing, I gave her my
patented, He’s Mine and I’m Ready to Rumble Look.
She shot back her, We’ll See, Bitch Look.
I was this close to growling when her boyfriend
spoke up.
“Who’s this, Tammy?”
Since I was ready to rumble, I couldn’t but cut a quick
glance at the Peacock.
He was staring at my tits.
Okay, he was with his chick and staring at my chest.
Maybe he was the Supreme Asshole of All Time.
“My ex,” she answered. “Hey, Mo.”
“Hey,” he grunted.
Mo Translation: I have zero interest in conversing with you.
Then again, he had zero interest in conversing with just
about everybody as far as I could tell.
I was understanding why she was an ex when she ignored his
vibe and asked, “How’s things?”
Another grunt of, “Good.”
She sliced a glance at me. “Is this your new—?”
“Yup,” I said, cutting her off before Mo could say anything,
then shifting and putting my arm around his waist.
Or trying. He had a wide waist. It was trim, but it was
wide.
I finally grabbed hold of the other side, barely, my fingers
sliding off the slick material of his skintight compression shirt.
So I grabbed onto a beltloop of his cargos.
Her gaze dropped to my finger hooked through his beltloop,
her eyes narrowed, and she didn’t seem to notice it took long moments for Mo to
drop his arm around my shoulders.